


"The King of Brooklyn" and other monikers

by the_king_of_brooklyn



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, Genderbending, Spot's afab and kinda nonbinary, and maybe after, chapter 1 starts in 1890, check chapter notes for individual triggers, continues through the strike, depends on the chapter, kinda angsty kinda fluffy, some characters are based on 92sies some are based on livesies, we'll see how that goes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2019-09-14 16:11:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16916088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_king_of_brooklyn/pseuds/the_king_of_brooklyn
Summary: Spot Conlon has had many identifiers throughout a long career selling newspapers, but none so infamous as the title "King of Brooklyn."





	1. The Runaway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1890
> 
> TW: near-death experience; references to abuse; minor deadnaming; alcoholism

Spot Conlon’s earliest memory was of climbing through the poles under a boardwalk on Brighton Beach during a storm. Trips to the beach were a weekend tradition for the family, as Brighton offered a break for Spot’s overworked parents and allowed the children to swim and play the day away. Spot’s favorite activity was to sit in the sand underneath the boardwalk and listen to the waves crashing and the activity on the boardwalk above. The louder the water crashed, the more entranced Spot became. The darker the water appeared, the more curious Spot was to delve into the mysteries the waves offered. And so when a sudden storm whipped up the waves during a beach trip when Spot was young, she was overcome with a desire to brave the percieved danger of the aggressive water. 

Bridget was yelling from the beach that it wasn’t safe, to come back for fear of drowning, but Spot continued out into the cold waves, which grew higher and higher with every step. The sound of the waves became louder as the voice calling out to her became quieter and the crashing water ahead was dangerously high and splashed against her face and her feet were as pointed as possible and still the sand below was just out of reach but her arms paddled to keep afloat until the waves slapped her face and the current whipped her feet out from under her and her vision was overcome with the blackness of the water and her nose filled with salt and her throat burned until she was pulled from the water by someone she assumed was her mother. Spot’s hearing was muffled and her vision cloudy even once back on the sand of the beach. She shivered and coughed as her mother yelled and her sister cried, but Spot only felt betrayed by her own curiosity and stupid, naive bravery. 

Spot was never actually sure if the image was a true memory or a dream or if the context her mind supplied surrounding the storm was real or imagined. The only truth she knew about the memory was that it was cut short and that asking Mum about it resulted in shouting and in pain. Most conversations with Mum, in fact, resulted in shouting and pain. 

Spot always thought about that day whenever she took to her safe haven underneath that same boardwalk. It was under that boardwalk that Spot decided one night to disappear from her mother’s no longer watchful eye. 

Spot stood almost before the decision had even finished passing through her mind and began the trek back to her family home. Try as she might, Spot could not make her mind wander as she walked the familiar path, twisting among buildings and climbing fire escapes from Brighton to Midwood. She was aware every step of the way of all she risked going home with the intention of never returning. At best, she hoped to climb noiselessly through the window she always left unlocked, collect some clean clothes and enough food only for the week, and escape the same way she entered. But there was so much that could go wrong. Perhaps Mum had locked the window as she had so many nights before, and Spot would have to knock to be let in. Even if the window were unlocked, there was no promise that Spot could climb up the fire escape and into the apartment in silence or that her family would already be asleep when she arrived. 

At worst, Spot knew, Mum would be awake and drunk or in a bad mood. Mum wasn’t always like that. But it was getting progressively worse. It must be hard for Mum to work and raise three children alone. That didn’t make it right. Spot knew as well as anyone that having it hard didn’t excuse bad behavior. Well, having it hard didn’t excuse Spot’s bad behavior. Spot had no idea how having it hard somehow excused Mum’s. 

As she made the final turn into the alley behind the apartment, Spot felt her heart sink. A single light shone through a window on the third floor of the building. Someone was awake. Spot sighed and prayed to herself that it was Bridget putting Evan to bed and that Mum was out or sleeping. 

Spot approached the fire escape and wound up to jump for the ladder, but stopped before she could. Climbing the fire escape was risky not only because of the noise of rusty metal scraping, but also from a safety standpoint. Spot had once missed a step and fallen down the ladder to the level below, scraping her face and twisting her leg so badly she couldn’t sell papers for almost a month. Spot rubbed her knee at the memory. Even now, almost a year later, she occasionally limped due to the lasting ache in her leg. 

Instead of risking another injury, Spot walked toward the main door to the building and rummaged in her canvas bag. Amongst the pennies she’d earned and the two papers she had failed to sell that day, Spot found what she was looking for - an old key that she had filed down into a sort of makeshift skeleton key to pick open locks. It was always hit or miss if the key would work, but Spot decided it was worth a shot. She slipped the key into the lock and placed her ear against the door as she fiddled, listening for the first tick that would indicate the key was working. It took a long minute of silence and bated breath before she felt give and heard the telltale sound of the key clicking into place. After cracking the first peg, the lock was easier to pick. Spot was able to turn the doorhandle soon after, the hinges creaking open and revealing the short hallway of the building and the stairwell on her left. 

Spot pulled the door closed behind her and dropped the key into her pocket, careful not to make any more noise than necessary. She creeped up the stairs on the tips of her toes, dodging all the creaky or weak spots in the wood as she climbed to the third floor. Once there, she began the trek down the hall that, though short, was just as thin and noisy as the stairs. Spot performed what must have looked like a sort of uncoordinated dance to avoid making any sound as she approached the third door on her left. She reached again for the key as she grabbed the door handle, turning it as slowly as possible to see if by some miracle the door was still open. To her surprise and relief, it was. 

Spot held her breath as she opened the door, fearful of coming face-to-face with a tired, drunk, or angry Mum waiting for her, but there was no one. She slipped into the apartment and shut the door silently behind her. The light Spot had seen from the road was still illuminated, the amber glow of a candle shining from the back room that she shared with her siblings. Mum was, as Spot now noticed, lying asleep on the couch. 

Spot crept past the couch toward the bedroom, peeking around the corner to find Bridget awake and sitting on their bed while Evan slept soundly next to her. 

“Bridget?”

The oldest Connell sibling looked up from the book in her lap at the whisper. “Hi, Dottie.” Spot smiled and stepped fully into the room. She hopped onto the bed and wrapped her arms around Bridget in a hug, a gesture that her sister gladly reciprocated. “How was work?”

Spot sighed. It was going to be hardest to leave Bridget. Spot was less than a year younger than she was, and Evan about the same amount younger than Spot. Evan was barely five years old. Odds were that he wouldn’t even remember ever having another sister besides Bridget. But Bridget, Spot knew, would remember. “It was fine.” She leaned away to break the hug and stood, not wanting to become tied up in the emotions of what she was about to do. 

Bridget must have picked up on Spot’s changed mood because her expression became strangely attentive. Bridget always listened whenever Spot talked. She always cared, but she didn’t always understand. Spot knew that she would never really understand because she was never at the receiving end of Mum’s anger. Spot made sure of that. Spot wasn’t even really sure Bridget knew what Spot endured whenever the younger girl stepped between Bridget and Mum, desperate to physically protect the sister that protected her emotionally. People never took Spot for the pensive type due to her age, gender, and small stature, but she was observant in ways many grown-ups weren’t and was not afraid to do what she thought was right, even if she didn’t know why it was right. 

Which is why Spot shuffled through the folded clothes piled in a suitcase on the floor. They had no wardrobe or drawers for their clothes - the room was far too small for storage like that as well as a bed large enough for the three siblings - but Bridget made sure that clothes were always folded and the apartment looked presentable despite the family’s obvious financial struggles. Spot snagged a short sleeved undershirt, socks, an extra pair of pants, and a button-down shirt of her father’s that was surely far too large for her and stuffed them all unceremoniously into her bag. At this, Bridget stood. 

“Are you going somewhere?”

Bridget’s voice was a hair too loud for Spot’s liking, and she shushed her sister as she snuck back into the living room. 

“Dottie,” Bridget called again, this time louder than before. 

Just feet from Spot, Mum shifted in her sleep. Spot glared down the dark hallway at Bridget, hoping that she could still see and would take the hint. No such luck.

“Dot!”

Mum stirred and groaned as she began to wake. 

“Where are you going this late at night?”

Spot motioned for Bridget to keep it down and whispered, “I’m just… sleeping at the lodging house tonight! I needed a change of clothes.” She scrambled into the small kitchen and dug around the pantry. All she really needed was an apple or two and a chunk of bread and she would be set for the next couple of days. 

“Bridget?”

Spot’s heart skipped as Mum sat up on the couch. Knowing she had run out of time, Spot grabbed the nearest two food items and stuffed them in her bag. She tried to get out of the apartment before Mum was lucid enough to stop her, but even in her groggy state, Mum made it to the door before Spot. 

“Are you going out?” Mum asked as she squinted at the clock on the wall. 

“I… I just said I’m sleeping at the lodging house tonight. I just needed—“

“You aren’t sleeping at home?” Mum leaned forward into Spot’s face as she spoke, and Spot caught a whiff of whiskey on her breath. “Why don’t you want to sleep here?”

“No, I-I-I,” Spot took a breath to calm the stutter, shuddering without realizing the extent of her nervousness. “There’s just an empty bed—“

“You have a bed here.”

“I know, but—“

“But nothing! I’m not paying another crooked landlord for you to sleep somwhere else when you have a perfectly good bed here.” Mum’s accent became thicker as she worked herself up further. She gestured toward the back room as she stood upright. “Go to bed.”

Conversation over. 

Spot hung her head and turned back toward Bridget, fully intending to wait until everyone was again asleep before taking a chance and climbing down the fire escape.

She had barely taken two steps before she saw Bridget’s eyes widen and felt Mum yank her back by the collar. Spot yelped as Mum snatched the button-down from the bag, sending the food she had pocketed scattering onto the floor. She reached down to collect her things but found herself suddenly spun around to face Mum, who was now at eye-level with Spot, but not looking at her. She was looking, almost shocked, at the plaid shirt in her hand. Mum kneaded the fabric, and Spot saw a sort of change in her face. It was not sadness, nor happiness that Spot saw in her eyes, but a brief glimpse of something Spot had not seen in Mum for as long as she could remember. The image of Mum’s face in that moment would stick with Spot for years. She would later recognize the unidentifiable something in Mum’s eyes as both love and sudden sobriety. But the love was not directed at Spot but at the shirt, at the memory of Father that Mum saw in the clothing. It was a look Spot never saw from her mother again.

Mum’s grip loosened on Spot’s collar. “Go.” Her voice was quiet and shaky. 

Spot didn’t know what to do. She had to leave, that much was certain. She stepped backward out of Mum’s reach and watched as the hand that was just holding her hostage retreated to also hold the shirt. Spot looked to the floor, where the loaf of bread and tinned peaches she’d snuck from the pantry were sitting. The can was still rolling subtly from the force of being thrown from the bag. 

Spot again collected her rations and set them in her bag as she walked toward the door. Mum was still staring blankly at the shirt.

“Dottie?”

Spot looked over her shoulder at Bridget, standing where she had frozen in shock when Mum had grabbed Spot. She looked terrified, her left hand shaking and her breathing growing shallow as tears clearly formed in her eyes. Spot chose to look away. 

As she almost sprinted out of the apartment, willing herself not to cry, she heard Bridget still calling her name, frantic and hysterical. 

Spot ran. She ran down the hallway, she ran down the stairs, she ran out into the cold of night. She ran through the alleys and past the shopfronts of the Brooklyn neighborhood she called home. Her feet hurt and the cold whipped at her face but she didn’t cry. She ran block after block, past the park and past the expensive houses that surrounded it, until her legs gave out from under her. Spot tumbled to a stop outside a row of brownstone homes somewhere in Crow Hill. 

She scrambled away from the road until her back hit brick and she sunk to the ground. It was then that she cried. She held her bag in her lap and she cried silently, overwhelmed by the knowledge that she was far from home in the middle of the night and she would never see her family again and she was alone sitting outside a stranger’s home with nothing but a loaf of bread and a tin of peaches and she was small. She was so small.  
Spot wore herself out from crying and fell asleep curled up outside the building.


	2. The Gambler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1892
> 
> TW: smoking, gambling, minor swearing

Two years after running away from home, Spot was awoken daily by the same voice that had woken her in Crow Hill the morning she joined a group of ragamuffins she soon called her brothers.

“Sun’s up, boys! Time to get movin’!” Shiner called from the bottom of the stairs.

Spot sat up in her bed and pulled her suspenders over her shoulders. The newsboys’ lodging house was already buzzing with activity as boys and girls fought over washbuckets and who stole socks from whom. There were boys as old as seventeen chasing each other down the hallways half-dressed and kids younger than Spot yawning and rolling over for a minute more of sleep. Across the hall, Spot saw a boy around seven throw a wet hand towel out of Spot’s line of sight, which was followed by a redheaded girl throwing the boy over her shoulder and pushing him out into the hallway. She then took that same wet towel from her head and chucked it into his face. The lodging house was controlled chaos, and Spot loved it.

Spot pulled her vest and hat from the table on her right then reached under her pillow to grab her socks from their hiding place. Shiner came around the corner and poked his head into the room, and the bed above Spot shook and creaked.

“Shiner! My man!” Hank called as he leapt from top bunk. He did it every morning but was no more coordinated than he was the first time he had tried to stick the landing, and he fell gracelessly backwards onto Spot. She pushed the much larger kid to his feet and kicked him lightly.

“Watch it, you almost squished Spottie!” Shiner laughed as he clapped Hank on the shoulder in hello. Shiner pushed past him and held his hand out to Spot. She quickly finished putting on her socks before standing. As she shook his hand, he said, “Spot, I’ve got a job for you.”

She perked up. “Yeah?”

“I need you to scope out somewhere new to sell.” Spot’s face fell. “I know you like sellin’ up near Queens but I want you to try somewhere south. Coney’s popular, all the beaches is crawlin’ with folks lookin’ to drop a dime. Pretty sure some guys from _The Sun_ usually sell there, I just wanna know what kinda competition’s around. Think you can do that for me?”

Spot wasn’t thrilled, but she didn’t show it. “Sure, no problem.” She turned toward her bed and kicked her boots out from underneath. She sat to put them on, and Shiner popped down next to her.

“Thanks, Spottie. I appreciate it.”

Spot sat quietly as she laced up her boots. Her silence wasn’t a sign that she was upset, and Shiner knew that. Spot was just quiet in general. She liked to think more than speak, which was the opposite of how most in the lodging house behaved. She took a mental check of what she had — socks and shoes, suspenders, vest, hat… necklace. She reached up to the chain on her neck to ensure it was there, and sure enough there sat her skeleton key.

Spot hadn’t been back to southern Brooklyn in a long time. She sold near Queens on a shop corner owned by a man named George. Spot liked George and George liked Spot. They enjoyed each other’s company. Spot only hoped that her venture into southern Brooklyn was temporary and she’d soon be back to taking breaks at the sodapop counter at George’s general store.

Shiner elbowed her. She looked over to see him watching her, brow furrowed, concerned. She smiled, her nonverbal way to reassure him that she was fine.

Taking the hint, Shiner smiled back at her and stood. “Up!” he barked at the kids still sleeping in the other bunks.

Spot grabbed her canvas bag and joined the stampede of children running through the hallway and down the stairs. Tiny, Shiner’s second-in-command, stood at the front door of the lodging house counting the kids as they took to the street, all making a beeline to the distribution wagon a few blocks away.

“Conlon!” Spot looked around to see who called her, and Tiny was waving at her from across the room. A head and a half taller than the next tallest newsie in the house, Tiny towered over the younger kids. He was hard to miss.

Spot made her way over to him through the crowd of rambunctious kids. She reached out to shake his hand, but he tossed something at her instead. She caught it with a painful thump against her chest — a dark red apple bigger than the palm of her hand. She looked at Tiny, confused.

“Shiner wanted to make sure you had breakfast! For the trip south!” he called over the din of the morning.

“Oh!” Spot looked again at the apple then slipped it into her bag. “Thanks!”

He only saluted her in response, then returned to keeping track of the newsies leaving the house.

Spot only bought fifty papers that day. Coney was a long walk away, and she had no idea what the foot traffic would be like or if the boys from _The Sun_ would kick her out immediately when she got there. If she needed more papes, she could always find another wagon later in the day.

She began the trek south, snacking on her apple as she took in parts of Brooklyn she didn’t often see. Her usual commute was about thirty blocks in the opposite direction, but she enjoyed the new longer walk. She passed newsies that she recognized and occasionally ones she didn’t. By the time she was holding only the core of her apple, she was almost to Midwood and started to recognize some vaguely familiar areas of the neighborhood.

She tossed the apple core in a garden nearby and kept her head down for the next ten blocks or so, finally looking up when she became confused and lost in an unfamiliar part of town. She didn’t even know if she was going the right way anymore. The sun was still low in the sky on the horizon in front of her, which meant that she must have been going east for a couple of blocks. She turned south and kept walking, hoping she would get to the beach or the bay and could figure it out from there. She realized soon after that she was deep in Sheepshead, but she kept walking south. Eventually she would get to a beach.

Spot threw in the towel when she reached the racetrack. She had to sit down and rest. Her leg hurt and she was sweating. All Shiner had said was “go south and find somewhere to sell,” and Spot hadn’t seen any newsies for a couple of blocks. The schedule was full top to bottom with races, so the crowd was sure to be good. Here was as good a place as any to set up for the day.

Spot sat down at a fork in the road where a grassy median split the walkway into two — one way led to the stands, the other to the track itself. She slipped her bag off her shoulder and used a pape to fan herself. It wasn’t hot — the spring air in the morning was still dewy and almost cold — but Spot needed a break before she got on her feet to sell.

It wasn’t long before patrons dressed in their Sunday best began arriving at the racetrack. Spot stood and started hawking. “Newspaper! Morning paper!” People mainly ignored her, but occasionally someone stopped to hand her a penny for a pape.

“Whattaya think you’re doing?”

Spot turned toward the voice, afraid of running into the boys from _The Sun_ that Shiner had warned her about, but all she saw was a lanky boy with dark hair marching toward her.

“Sellin’ papes, what’s it look like?” she responded as she turned to wave her papes at the passing crowd.

“Not here you ain’t. This is my spot.”

Spot sneered as she looked back at the boy. His arms were crossed over his chest and he had an unlit cigar in his hand. He was overall unthreatening. “I don’t see your name anywhere. I got here first, so beat it.”

“I don’t think so. I’m here every day and if you don’t leave—”

“What’ll you do?” Spot refused to be bullied by some scrawny kid who thought he was hot shit.

The boy advanced a couple steps. “You lookin’ to get a black eye?”

Spot mirrored his actions and got in his face. “You lookin’ to get a broken nose?”

The boy raised his eyebrows. The short, blond stranger was calling his bluff, and he had to either hold up or back off. He weighed his options — if he started a fight he could very well lose or get himself kicked out, even banned from the racetrack, his favorite place to sell. Not worth the risk. He thought for a moment, then was struck with a plan.

Spot thought she saw a cunning glint in the boy’s eyes, a glint she didn’t trust.

“How’s about this? The first race starts in ten minutes.” He pointed at the schedule posted in large letters on the wall of the stands. Spot couldn’t read it, but she nodded anyway. “Let’s each pick a horse. Whichever one wins, that’s the one that gets to sell here.”

Spot eyed the boy. He was a gambler. He wanted to bet on the races and clearly had experience. Spot was no gambler herself, but she didn’t like her odds.

“I got a better plan.” Spot dropped to her stomach and stuck out her right hand, her elbow on the ground. “Indian wrestling. Plain and simple.” She was strong for a girl, or at least that’s what all the boys at the lodging house would say after she beat them at Indian wrestling. Shiner had even twisted his wrist playing her once because neither of them would forfeit and, in the end, Shiner had bad form and his elbow slipped off the table. Spot was certain she could win.

The boy seemed to consider it if only for a second before shaking his head. “My idea’s much more fun.” He cocked his head. “You do know what fun is, right?”

Spot rolled her eyes and stood. “I know what fun is. Indian wrestling is fun.”

“No it ain’t. All you do is sit there and try to push the other guy’s hand over. Besides, I ain’t playin’ on the ground. You’d break your arm hittin’ it on the concrete.” He shook his head. “Nah, my way’s better.”

Spot sighed. What did she have to lose? All else fails, she would keep walking toward Coney and hopefully find a street corner near the beach where she could sell. She shrugged. “Fine. Who’s racing today?”

The boy’s face lit up and he rattled off names and statistics of racehorses Spot didn’t recognize. When he stopped to take a breath, she jumped in, “That one. That’s the one I want.”

The boy nodded and looked again at the roster. “He’s number 56. I’m betting on…” His head tilted as he trailed off. The hand that was twirling the cigar for the last couple minutes slowed to a stop, now twitching as if the cigar were a pen on paper. Spot assumed he must have been running numbers. It was actually kind of fascinating that he was doing all that in his head. “Him.” The boy pointed at some name on the roster. “Number 30.”

“Okay. Now what?”

“Now,” the boy popped the cigar in his mouth and reached into his pocket. He took out a match and struck it on a strip of sandpaper to light up. His brow furrowed as he concentrated on lighting the cigar, then released a puff of smoke and blew out the match. “We watch the race!”

He almost galloped over to the nearest railing, Spot following at a more reasonable pace behind him. “Hey!” She called as she almost lost him in the crowd. “Hey… uh… you!”

She had to duck between someone’s legs to catch up to him. “You!”

“I got a name,” he said, suddenly right beside her, puffing on his cigar. “Antonio.”

“Nice to meet you, Tony.”

Tony looked at her expectantly. “Do I get to know your name, or do I just have to call you Brooklyn?”

Spot, ever observant, didn’t miss a very telling detail about Tony. “You ain’t from Brooklyn?”

He looked away and sat down. “Manhattan.”

Spot whistled. “That’s a damn long way.”

He nodded.

“I shouldn’t talk,” Spot continued as she sat. “I usually sell up near Queens.”

“Why’s that?”

Spot knew why she liked the north side of Brooklyn, but Tony definitely didn’t need to know why she liked the north side of Brooklyn. “Why do you like coming all the way to the far side of Brooklyn to sell at the races?”

Tony barked a laugh. “Ya got a good point.”

Spot chuckled and Tony offered his cigar to her. She shook her head and he returned to his smoking.

“So, Brooklyn, what brings ya to the racetrack if you usually sell near Queens?”

“Spot.”

“What?”

“Spot,” she repeated. “My name’s Spot.”

Tony just stared at her, then cracked up. “It is not.”

“Is, too!”

“Your ma did not name you ‘Spot.’”

“Nickname, jackass. Ain’t you boys got ‘em in Manhattan?”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t really sell with the other guys.”

Spot raised her eyebrows at him. “You don’t live at the lodging house?”

“Nah.” Tony looked for a moment like he was going to continue, but then looked at his feet and took a drag from his cigar.

Spot took the hint. “I, uh, I’m just sellin’ here ‘cause Shiner asked me to.”

Tony nodded as though in agreement. “Him I’ve heard of. King of Brooklyn.”

“‘King of Brooklyn,’” Spot repeated. It was a phrase they jokingly threw around at the lodging house, never in seriousness. Spot had no idea that other boroughs used it honestly to refer to Shiner, the unofficially agreed-upon leader of the Brooklyn newsies.

Tony suddenly jumped to his feet. “Here they go!”

Spot stood but the railing was taller than she was. In fact, it was taller than Antonio. She had no idea how Tony knew the race was starting nor how he intended to actually see the race. Right as Spot though that, however, Tony grabbed the rail and jumped, pulling himself up to hang with his feet dangling and his arms holding his top half high enough to see over. Spot did the same, dropping her bag beneath her feet and using her papers as a stepstool to grab the railing and pull herself up.

“Which ones are we watching again?” Spot asked over the growing noise of the racetrack.

“You bet on 56! I got 30!”

She nodded as a gunshot rang through the air. The horses were off and the audience cheered.

Spot didn’t know where to look. Her eyes darted across the track from horse to horse, jockey to jockey, across the clump of hooves and dirt that was slowly but surely beginning to extend as some horses took the lead and others fell behind. Energy was high, buzzing and electric. Spot didn’t really care about the race itself, but the atmosphere was truly exciting, from the thundering of hooves to the whooping and hollering of the crowd to the breeze coming through that was so cool that it had to have come from the Bay. Spot finally laid eyes on her horse, a green blanket with the number 56 sat upon its back under the saddle. He wasn’t winning. Tony’s horse, number 30, was a few strides ahead of Spot’s and finished fourth, two places ahead of number 56.

Almost as quickly as it had begun, the race was over. Patrons applauded and returned to their conversations, others shook hands to congratulate won bets. Spot dropped back to solid ground and swung her bag back over her shoulder.

“What a race!” Tony exclaimed as he, too, dropped his feet to the floor. “What a race!”

Spot looked around — some people were already trickling out of the stands, and perhaps Spot could sell a few papes as she joined the exodus and found a new place to sell. She held out her hand to Tony. “Good to meet you, Tony.”

He looked at her, an eyebrow raised. “You goin’ somewhere?”

“Uh,” Spot shrugged, “yeah? Your horse beat mine. You can sell here, and I can find somewhere else. That’s what we agreed on.” She again offered her hand to shake.

Tony shook his head. “That ain’t what we agreed on.”

Spot blinked and cocked her head, taken aback. “Ain’t it?”

Tony crossed his arms and shook his head with an air of shameless cheek. “No it ain’t. We said whoever picked the winning horse won the spot. And since neither of us picked the winning horse…” He shrugged, the gesture dripping with sarcasm. “Neither of us won.”

Spot squinted as she tried to understand what he meant. “So what you’re saying is—”

Tony tilted his head toward the track. “We gotta bet on the next race.”

“Come on!” Spot rolled her eyes, half-convinced she should just leave the racetrack altogether whether she lost the bet or not. But only half-convinced. “Just Indian wrestle me for it!”

“No!” Tony teased. “Pick another horse!”

Spot laughed out of both amusement and a bit of incredulity. “No! Indian wrestle me for it or I might decide to just find somewhere else anyway!”

Tony gasped and dramatically clutched his chest as if he were wearing pearls. “You wouldn’t!”

“Wanna bet?” Spot retorted with a smirk.

“Hey boys!”

The newsies dropped the jocularity and looked toward the voice. It belonged to a mustachioed man in a tan suit and straw hat.

“Mornin’ sir! Care to buy a pape?” Tony had turned on the charm and held out a paper to the stranger.

“What’s the news today?” the man asked.

Tony glanced at the pape in his hand, quickly reading the headline. “‘Two Hundred May Be Dead! Terrible Explosion in a Coal Mine!”

Spot gawked at the tragic headline as the man took the pape and handed a penny to Spot. Though surprised, she gladly took it and tipped her cap as the man walked off. She looked at Tony, who was nodding, pleased, at the exchange.

“Here.” She tossed him the coin and adjusted her bag. “I’m gonna head off.”

“Hey, what for?” Tony asked as he pocketed it. “We gotta wait ‘till the next race!”

“I should just find somewhere else. It’s fine.”

“Wait just one more race? Ain’t no rule what says we can’t both sell here in the meantime!” Tony scanned the crowd and pointed out a young couple coming toward them. “I took the last one. Go!” He grabbed a pape from Spot’s bag and shoved it in her hand before she could react.

When all she did was stand there shocked, Tony took it on himself to push her lightly into the walkway and lift the hand that was holding her pape. He backed off and she came to her senses. “Mornin’ pape! Uh… Two Hundred Dead in Terrifying Explosion!”

The couple Tony had pointed out stopped to buy the paper then continued on. The newsies alternated hawking papes until the next race began, then exchanged predictions about which horses they thought would win. Once again, neither of them picked the winner, and the cycle began again.

They sold papes, they chatted, made their predictions, and swore when they both lost. This continued on through the entire day, race after race. Spot caught on quickly to the methods behind horse race gambling as Tony explained the history and stats of the races. She wouldn’t admit it, but Spot eventually began picking horses she thought would lose in the hopes of sticking around the racetrack for a while longer. And Tony wouldn’t admit it either, but he was doing the same thing.

The two sold papes late into the evening, long after the last race had finished and the only passersby were racetrack employees and gamblers off to spend their winnings or drink their sorrows. The kids, ever in the competitive spirit, began a game to see who could come up with the most outrageous headline while they hawked their last few papers.

“New Jersey Governor Caught Stealing Chickens from Local Farmer! Twenty Dead in the Aftermath!” Tony yelled, his voice hoarse from selling and laughing all day. A man tossed him a penny as he passed by and took the pape.

“Serial Killer Strikes Again! Six Dead as Jack the Ripper Immigrates to New York!” Spot countered, earning a penny from an elderly couple on a stroll.

“Has Money Become Obsolete? Newspaper Moguls Make Record High Income While Common Man Suffers!” The faux headline made Spot laugh outright, but nobody seemed to buy it.

She grabbed the pape from Tony and hawked, “Extra! Extra! Jockey Strike Disrupts New York Racing Circuit! Racehorse Strike Expected to Follow!” This headline sold, and a very concerned racetrack employee bought their very last pape.

“Hey, ya did it! Sold every one of ‘em!” Tony threw his now empty bag over his shoulder and pulled out his coins to count them.

“You helped. I didn’t do it by myself.”

“You almost got me with the jockey headline! That was a pretty good one.” Tony shook his head and chuckled.

“Not as good as ‘Local Vaudeville Star or Acclaimed Mass Murderer.’ That was golden.”

Tony took a bow at the compliment. “It was good if I do say so myself.”

They left the racetrack and took to the streets of Brooklyn together. Spot hardly realized they’d walked past some of her old stomping grounds in Midwood until those memories were already far behind the newsies.

Once they reached Prospect, Spot found it important to ask, “How’re you gettin’ back to Manhattan?”

Tony shrugged. “Last carriage leaves at seven.” Based on the pitch black sky lit only by street lamps, it was far past seven. “I’ll probably walk.”

“That’s way too far. You won’t even get across the bridge until after midnight!” Spot immediately thought about the Brooklyn lodging house. It was much closer than Manhattan and the walk was definitely safer than braving the bridge in the middle of the night. Shiner wouldn’t like it, having a new kid at the house, especially one from another borough. But Spot could convince him.

“How’s about you just stay with us at the lodging house? Better than tryin’ to walk all the way back to Manhattan.”

“You think I could?” Tony had a look on his face like he was hoping Spot would offer a place to spend the night on this side of the river.

Spot nodded. “I’ll have to tell Shiner, but as long as you just let me do the talking we’ll be fine.”

“Then sure,” he conceded. “Sounds great.”

Spot led the way to the lodging house, which was still alive with presence of newsies awake when they should probably be in bed. Spot hadn’t even stepped fully into the house before Shiner appeared out of nowhere.

“Spottie, what happened at Coney? You get lost in the funhouse or somethin’?”

“Nah, we sold all day, only started walkin’ back once we’d sold our last pape.”

“We?” Shiner looked to the unfamiliar face standing behind Spot.

Tony looked almost starstruck coming face-to-face with the “King of Brooklyn.” Spot had to elbow him to shake him out of it. “Sorry! Sorry, I’m Antonio.”

Spot intervened before Tony started his inevitable babbling. “We met at the racetrack where we was both sellin’. Hope it’s all right if he sleeps here tonight.”

“Where does he usually sleep?” Shiner inquired, still not on board.

Tony piped in, “Sometimes the racetrack, if it’s late and I don’t want to walk all the way back to Manhattan.”

Tony realized his mistake and Spot closed her eyes. She told him to let her do the talking, but he had given himself away.

“You Manhattan?” Shiner repeated. “What’re you doin’ sellin’ papes on our side of the river?”

Spot came to his defense. “Lighten up, Shiner! He don’t mean no harm.”

“If he sells in our territory he is doin’ harm. He’s takin’ customers from our boys.”

“Ain’t nobody sellin’ there anyways! There weren’t a newsie within three blocks of Sheepshead this mornin’!”

Shiner crossed his arms. He was still not convinced.

Spot sighed. “How ‘bout this.” She considered her options. She never really liked having a selling partner. Even professionals like Shiner who knew what they were doing proved a distraction from the job at hand. But Tony was nice and entertaining and the racetrack was in an unfamiliar part of town and what the hell, why not. “Let him sell with me at Sheepshead. It’s nice to have a sellin’ partner on long days like today, ‘specially as a girl.”

“You’s a girl?” Tony’s question came out more like a shocked accusation, but Spot continued on.

“I know I sold better today out there havin’ company than my usual spot alone. And you said today that you wanted me away from Queens!”

Shiner rolled his eyes and put a hand to his forehead.

“I’ll keep an eye on him, Shiner. Trust me.”

He sighed and gave in. “Fine. You and Racetrack Boy here can sell at Sheepshead but if I hear about any funny business or anything gettin’ out of hand…”

His unfinished threat seemed directed more at Tony than Spot, but she took it upon herself to respond anyway. “It won’t, we promise.”

Shiner nodded and made like he was going to walk away, but turned once more to the younger newsies. “And I’m going to come by tomorrow to check up on you both.”

“Yessir.”

“Yessir,” Tony echoed.

Shiner waved goodnight to Spot and the rest of the newsies in the common area, and Spot started up the stairs. “I dunno if there’s an empty bed anywhere but we can get you set up on the floor with an extra blanket or something.”

“Spot?”

“It’s really no problem, I know Hank’s got at least two extra blankets ‘cause he gets extra cold at night but I’m sure I can bum one off him—”

“Spot.”

She looked over her shoulder and Tony was standing a couple steps below, looking as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. “Yeah, Tony?”

He thought for a minute more, then simply said, “Thank you. For lookin’ out for me.”

Spot smiled and punched him lightly in the arm. “Anytime… Racetrack Boy.”

Tony cracked a smile at the nickname and followed Spot the rest of the way up the stairs. Hank was clearly pretending to be asleep when Spot walked in, but she called his bluff.

“Aw, I wish Hank were awake,” Spot drawled, far too loud and dramatic to be serious. “I was gonna ask to borrow a blanket. I woulda told him I’d get some of that peppermint candy he likes the next time I go to Georgie’s…” Hank stirred. “And maybe a bottle of root beer! Oh well, guess I should go ask Tiny…”

A balled-up blanket dropped from the top bunk and landed on the ground with an unceremonious thwack. Hank rolled over, grumbling something about cream sodapop, and Spot adjusted the blanket so it was laid out on the floor. As she climbed into her own bed, Tony nested on the floor next to Spot’s bunk, folding his bag into a makeshift pillow, and he pretty quickly fell asleep.

Spot laid awake longer, listening as the lodging house quieted and the air stilled. Spot fell asleep to the sound of crickets outside and Hank’s snoring and Tony’s occasional mumbling, and all she cared about was that she had sold all her papers today and made a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, arm wrestling wasn't actually called "arm wrestling" until the mid-20th century. It existed in Victorian era, but they called it "Indian wrestling" so that's what Spot's talking about. Anyway. Thanks for reading!


	3. The Prince of Brooklyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1892
> 
> TW: deadnaming; references to abuse; smoking; canon-typical violence; panic attack

Yet another successful day at the racetrack came to a close for Spot and Tony. Not only were the illustrations of the Sunday paper an attractive draw to customers, but the whole city was talking about a murder that had happened in Massachusetts. All a newsie had to do was say the name “Borden” and the pape was all but sold. 

It wasn’t even suppertime by the time Spot and Tony began the walk back toward the lodging house so Tony could catch the last carriage back to Manhattan. Coins jingled in their pockets as they walked, the promise of a splurge on candy or cigarettes.

“Who d’ya think did it?” Tony asked suddenly.

“Did what?”

Tony laughed, incredulous. “‘Did what?’ Whattaya think? The Borden murders! Who do you think did it?”

“Oh!” Spot had all but forgotten the headline. Her mind had already moved on to thoughts of how to spend the extra money she’d earned. “I dunno. Who do _you_ think did it?”

Tony shook his head. “My money’s on the uncle.”

“The uncle? Don’t the cops think the daughter did it?”

“Ain’t no dame coulda done that! You read the description of the bodies in the pape?”

Spot had not read about the murders, as much as she had wanted to know all the gory details. She had only heard comments in passing about the Bordens having been hacked to death in their own home. “Did _you_ read the pape? There’s stuff that don’t line up ‘bout the daughter’s story!”

“You think a lady coulda taken an axe to her parents in broad daylight? You think _you_ could chop up _your_ family like that?”

Spot knew she could never. Not even Mum. Even so, she responded, “Maybe on a bad day. Couldn’t you?” 

Tony nodded but didn’t elaborate. “Well, you ain’t a normal lady. You dame newsies is basically boys, anyway.”

Spot laughed. “Don’t say that around some of the other girls. You’d have to high-tail it back to Manhattan explainin’ how you got a black eye from a lady.”

He chuckled, pulling a cigar from his pocket. He patted around his pants and bag, his brow furrowing. “Did I give you my matches?”

Spot searched her pockets and bag, but found nothing. She shook her head.

“Damn!” Tony turned and looked back toward the racetrack. “I must have dropped them. Damn!” he swore again. “Can we stop somewhere and I can get more?”

She shrugged. “Sure.” 

“You see a drugstore anywhere?”

Spot looked around. They were far enough from the racetrack to be in a more residential area of Brooklyn, an area Spot suddenly recognized. 

“Ah…” She pointed off down a familiar road toward where she believed was a pharmacy. “There?” And then Tony was brazenly striding through Midwood before Spot could react. “Wait, wait!” She jogged to keep up with him, suddenly paranoid that the brownstones lining the road had eyes. 

Spot had been right about the pharmacy. The white storefront with green letters reading “O’Mara’s” and tall windows revealing jars of candy had normally been a welcome sight, but Spot was too anxious wandering around Midwood to find pleasure in it. 

As Tony searched up and down shelves for matches, Spot hardly blinked, looking over her shoulder every other moment. She was hyperaware of every noise and movement she saw out of the corner of her eye.

“Ha!” Spot jumped out of her skin. Tony was squatting in front of a shelf, grabbing a box of matches and standing. He looked at her, but his smile quickly turned to concern. “Are you all right? You look like a rabbit in a snare.”

Spot shuddered, not realizing she had been holding her breath. “I… I’m fine. Let’s go.”

“Fine, let’s go.” Tony pocketed the matches and started toward the door.

Spot put her hand out to stop him. “You can’t take that.”

“What?”

Spot pointed over her shoulder at the distracted man working the counter. “You can’t steal that. You gotta pay. He’s got a family to feed.”

“How would you know if he’s got a family? Why do you care?” 

Spot didn’t want to talk about it and gave in. She felt like she was going to throw up. “Fine. Fine!” She started toward the door, her head ducked so as not to make eye contact with anyone, especially not Mr. O’Mara. 

This time it was Tony’s turn to jog to keep up. The bell on the door jingled twice as the kids left one after the other. Spot could have sworn she saw Mr. O’Mara look up at them, halfway waving at her. 

Spot didn’t stop walking until she was blocks away. She breathed deeply, trying to calm her frantic heartbeat and churning stomach. 

“What the hell?” Tony panted as he slowed to a stop, hands on his hips and coughing. “Ya gotta warn a guy before ya make him run two damn miles!”

“It weren’t two miles!” Spot snapped. Tony’s glare softened, and Spot looked away. “I’m sorry.”

“What’s goin’ on? You been on edge all day.”

Spot shook her head. “It ain’t important.”

“It is! You ain’t actin’ normal! Tell me what’s goin’ on!”

“Shut up!” Spot could feel tears welling up in her eyes. Tony was being too loud and was calling attention to them, attention Spot was actively trying to avoid. “Shut up!” she hissed, much quieter than before.

Tony didn’t listen. “Spot! What’s wrong?”

Over Tony’s shoulder Spot saw a group of tall boys coming around the corner. They wore caps like Spot’s and carried canvas bags. Overcome with dread, Spot turned her back, but not before she made eye contact with the shortest and stockiest of the motley crew, a mean and hotheaded newsie called Tomcat. 

Tony grabbed her arm as she turned. “Spottie!”

“Dottie!” came Tomcat’s voice, and Spot cringed. “Been a while, wouldn’t ya say?”

She steeled her nerves then turned to face them. Spot hadn’t seen Tomcat’s gang since she worked for the _Journal_ , almost three years ago. He was probably around twelve now, but his gang was usually comprised of dumb and brawny kids older than he was. While his gang had grown in number and height, Tomcat himself had only grown in width and arrogance. Spot knew he could knock her out with one punch. He’d done it before. 

She addressed him. “Tomcat.” 

Tony turned to watch as Tomcat led his brick wall of backup toward the younger, smaller, and definitely scareder newsies. 

“Look at this, boys! It seems little Dottie found herself a new gig!” Tomcat and his boys had run Spot out of the _Journal_ , and so bumping into her after so long must have been quite the laugh for them. “So, what are you sellin’ on street corners nowadays, Dot?”

“None of your business,” she quipped back, immediately regretting showing her hand and letting him get to her.

“Oh! She wants to play this game!” Tomcat turned to his chuckling gang.

“I don’t want to play any game. We was just leavin’.” Spot grabbed Tony by the wrist and pulled him away, but Tomcat was relentless.

“Come on, Dottie! You haven’t even introduced us to your boyfriend!” He grabbed Tony’s shoulder. “Where _are_ your manners?”

Tony shook Tomcat’s hand from his shoulder and lightly pushed him away. Spot’s grip tightened on his wrist. He had no idea who he was dealing with, and Spot didn’t want him to have to find out. 

Tomcat was a bully and his favorite was when kids would cry. Spot refused to ever give him the satisfaction, but she was already so close to tears she knew she would either cry or punch Tomcat in the face. She didn’t know which option would be worse in the long run.

“We’re going.” Spot tugged again on Tony’s wrist. “Didn’t mean to bother you.”

“Spot,” Tony whispered, barely audible, but Tomcat caught it.

“They don’t call you Dot anymore? Shame!” He threw an arm around her shoulders, and Spot lost her grip on her friend. “Spot sounds like a dog’s name. I guess that’s fitting for a bitch like you.”

Spot saw red. She shoved Tomcat with all her strength as Tony at the same moment punched him in the nose. Tomcat stumbled backward and fell flat on his ass, his face scrunched up from the shocking pain and embarrassment.

Tony and Spot had the same brilliant idea at the same time: Run. Spot grabbed his hand and bolted, already two blocks away before she heard Tomcat screaming at his gang to follow them and kick their asses.

Spot led them through Midwood, navigating familiar alleyways and fire escapes until they arrived in Prospect Park. They skidded to a stop next to a tall oak that Spot swiftly scaled, Tony at her heels. She stopped around halfway up and caught her breath as Tony settled on a nearby branch. The adrenaline in Spot’s veins was no longer from fear, but exhilaration. She had fought with Tomcat and escaped without a scratch, and Tony had stuck with her.

They locked eyes as they tried to steady their breathing, and Spot laughed. It began as a whispery chuckle, but it grew heartier and clearer until it turned into a teary cackle, a confusing release of emotions Spot had been repressing since the beginning of their adventure into Midwood. Tony laughed also, partially from excitement and partially in response to Spot’s uncontrollable sobs of laughter.

He lit his cigar with his new matches as Spot quieted and wiped the tears from her face. Tony looked at her with a mixture of concern and genuine hurt. “You all right?”

She shrugged. “Tomcat’s a jerk.”

Tony nodded and took a drag. A silence settled over the two that spoke more truth than the young kids knew how to articulate. 

Tomcat was a jerk and his bullying hurt Spot more than she let on. 

Watching his friend become the target of Tomcat’s unkindness angered Tony in a surprisingly passionate fashion, so much so that he’d punched a boy clearly years his senior for calling her names. He knew Spot could take care of herself, but nonetheless his instinct to hurt someone who hurt his friend was too sudden and strong to resist. Of course, Tony wanted to know the story behind Tomcat’s cruel teasing, but he was smart enough to respect Spot’s privacy and keep quiet. 

He didn’t ask, but Spot knew she could trust him. She thought he had the right to know why Tomcat’s comments got to her like they did.

“I used to work with him at the _Journal_.” Spot hadn’t ever told Tony much about her life before she started living in the lodging house and working for the _World_. He listened intently as she continued, “He and his jerk friends were… just mean. That was the first place I worked and I still dressed…” She gestured to her clothes. “Like a girl. I still looked like a girl. I had long hair and wore dresses instead of pants.” 

Tony tried to imagine, but the thought was so foreign he couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

Spot kept on. “Made me an easy target. A tiny five-year-old girl newsie with blonde braids that dressed like a dame and didn’t know how to throw a punch.”

He nodded. “Your name is Dot?”

“Used to be.” Spot sniffed. “Dorothy. My grandma’s name.”

“Why’d you change it?”

She shrugged. “Started working at the _World_ and didn’t want to be seen like a girl anymore. Dot is obviously a girl’s name. Spot sounds kind of the same but more like a boy.” She scoffed. “And come on, I got a sense of humor. But the guys at the lodge don’t care if you’re a girl anyway. There’s lots of girls workin’ at the _World_.”

Tony paused. “You were five when you started sellin’?”

Spot looked up at him. The cigar was smoldering in his hand, ash falling as Tony stared. He was entirely engrossed, paying no attention to the still-burning cigar. Spot reached forward and took it. 

She shrugged in response to his question as she took a drag. It was a Capadura, and the smoke burned her mouth not only from the heat but also the sharp peppery taste. The spice of it added a kick to the aroma of dark chocolate in the smoke, which made Capadura cigars Spot’s favorite. They were among the milder cigars Tony enjoyed, but even so, Spot coughed and passed it back to him.

“Why?”

Spot felt her face grow warm. She had already gotten so personal, she wasn’t sure she wanted to go much further in telling her story. “What’s it to you?” she spat, much harsher than she’d intended.

Tony’s eyes grew wide in response to the offense he must have caused her. “Nothin’!” He snuffed out the cigar and continued, “You don’t gotta tell me if you don’t want…” He trailed off in thought and bobbed his head as he considered how to proceed. “Ma was having a baby and Pop works at a slaugherhouse, so they said I had to find work or go live with my uncle in Maryland since we don’t got a lot of money. That was only last year so it just surprised me when you said you been sellin’ for three years.”

“It’s fine. I get it.” Spot shifted on the branch. “My pa died when I was five. Evan was almost three so Mum stayed home during the day and worked at night. Bridget took a job sewing in a factory but I was too little, so I started selling papes for the _Journal_.”

Spot hadn’t ever told Tony very much about her family, so he could only assume that Evan and Bridget were her siblings. “You see your family anymore?” 

Spot snorted. “That’s a laugh. I ran away. I don’t want to see them and they don’t want to see me.” Mum had come looking for her once before. Only once. She had come banging on the lodging house door just before dark, but Mrs. Kirby had turned her away, citing no presence of a “Dorothy Connell” in the house. Spot had hidden on the stairs throughout the whole thing, basically in tears. 

Tony didn’t press further. The sun was low in the sky, the day was almost over. The last carriage across the bridge would be leaving soon. Spot sighed and began the descent toward solid ground. Tony dropped to the ground just after. Spot led the meandering walk through the park, Tony following in silence. 

They arrived at the lodging house twenty minutes later, most of the boys already returned from their days of selling. The clock on the wall read 6:10, enough time for the duo to eat supper and get Tony back to Manhattan. 

“Conlon!” came a voice from the floor. Piker, a lanky eleven-year-old with a penchant for troublemaking, stood from her reading spot in the common area and bounded over, stealing Spot’s hat and ruffling her hair. “You’re home early!”

Spot grinned and grabbed at her hat, but Piker, ever the teasing older sibling, held it out of reach, forcing Spot to jump for it. Then Piker bolted down the stairs toward the basement, Spot and Tony following close behind. As Spot rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs, the cap collided with her face, Piker’s laugh growing dimmer as she ran down the length of the dining area. Hat in hand, Spot chased her, cackling as she ran with wild abandon under tables and between the legs of older newsies to tackle Piker. 

As Tony caught up, the older newsie stood, pulling the squealing Spot onto her back as she approached the line for food. Spot picked her food from Piker’s back, Tony dutifully collecting her order and carrying the tray to a table. Spot and Tony always shared when they ate at the lodging house, since Spot was the only one who actually paid to be there. Tony offered to pay her back the first time, but Spot insisted, claiming that she never ate all the food they offered anyway. Not that there was an abundance of food on the plate. Spot just said what she knew would make Tony shut up and eat, since she had a feeling he wouldn’t be having a decent meal otherwise. 

Tonight they shared potatoes, pot roast, and something that looked to be green beans. It all tasted generally the same, but the kids were grateful to eat something hot. They sat with Piker and a couple of the older newsies, laughing at their jokes and listening intently to their stories. 

“How was the racetrack, Racetrack?” Piker asked as Tony took a large bite of potato.

Still not quite used to the nickname, Tony didn’t look up from the plate. Spot had to elbow him to get his attention, and Tony almost choked as he tried to answer. “Good!” he tried to say through a mouthful of food. 

Piker barked a laugh as Spot rolled her eyes. “Gross! Don’t get potatoes on the table!” 

“Lay off him, Spot!” Piker fired back. “He’s enjoying his dinner! Unlike you! You’ve hardly eaten!”

It was true. Spot had only picked at her food. “Not real hungry.” 

“I am,” called Hank as he slid down the bench, aiming his fork at Spot’s plate. 

She met his fork with her own, a metallic clink stopping Hank from stealing her food. “I ain’t hungry now, doesn’t mean I won’t be later.”

Hank backed off, mumbling something about leftovers. 

“Spot!” 

She turned over her shoulder toward the stairs where Shiner was standing. Her face fell. He didn’t look happy. Shiner jerked his head toward the stairs as he ducked out of sight, indicating she should follow him. A chorus of “ooh” rose from the table, to which Spot responded for them to shut it.

Shiner stood at the top of the stairs waiting, and then led her up the next flight and the next to the third floor. She followed him down the hallway, past the large barrack where a couple boys were already sleeping and toward the wing of private rooms. They were more expensive than the barracks and bunks, and so only the older newsies and best sellers rented the private rooms. Being the so-called King of Brooklyn, Shiner had a private room on the end of the hall across from a type of hospital room where kids went when they were sick. Spot followed Shiner into his room, and he closed the door behind them. Spot crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against a dresser, her back toward the window.

“What happened?” Shiner was intense, as though he were a pot about to boil over. “What happened today?”

“Nothin’. Tony and I—”

“I got word that you punched Tomcat?” 

“I…” She hadn’t — that had been Tony — but she decided to take the blame for it anyway. “Yeah, I punched Tomcat.”

Shiner nodded and sat down on the bed. “So what happened?”

“He just… showed up out of nowhere and started being… you know how he is…”

“I know how he is. Why were you around him in the first place?”

“We… got lost.” It wasn’t quite a lie, but it also wasn’t quite the truth. Shiner gave her a look that conveyed his disbelief that Spot could have gotten lost going to or from the racetracks, a path she walked every day. “We stopped to get some matches and then ran into him outside the drugstore.”

Shiner shook his head. “You were deep in Midwood. That’s way off the path for you.”

Spot’s heart skipped. “How’d you know where it happened?”

“A little birdie told me.” Of course. One of Shiner’s informants must have seen it happen or heard about it through the grapevine. “Why were you so far in Midwood?”

Spot was tired of avoiding the truth. Shiner was as close to being Spot’s friend as he was anyone else’s. She knew she could trust him with her life, and he already knew so much that it didn’t make sense to keep secrets. “We was at a drugstore I used to go to when I lived there. Mr. O’Mara’s. He lived downstairs from my family. I… didn’t want to talk to him and so I ran away and we ended up way far off the path.”

Shiner sat his hand on his chin. “Tomcat’s pissed.”

“He shouldn’t have been a jerk,” Spot quipped under her breath.

Shiner spun to face her so quickly it startled her. “I don’t care if he was being a jerk. I can’t afford you running around punching our own, even if they deserve it. You gotta be more… diplomatic.”

Spot wasn’t quite sure what he meant. He ran a hand through his hair and continued, “I… know that you’re young, and you’re proud, but there are big things ahead for you. Tiny and I have been talking, and we both think that once you’re older, you’re going to make a great leader.”

Spot was shocked. She thought she’d come in to be chewed out, but Shiner had become much more sincere than she had ever seen him. “What do you mean?”

“Tiny’s my second, yeah? But once I’m out and he’s in, we think you should be next in line.” 

Spot didn’t respond. Shiner was fifteen, which meant that at most he had around four or five more years as a newsie. Tiny was thirteen, so he would probably have around two years after Shiner left. If each of them lasted as long as they could as “King,” Spot would take the mantle at age fourteen. That was so far away, yet the older boys had already singled her out as a potential leader. 

Shiner could sense that Spot was becoming overwhelmed. “You don’t have to be thinking about that right now. That’s a long way off. But you’re a great newsie. You know the business already. And I’ve been watching you teachin’ Racetrack. You’re a born leader. You care so much about the other kids, and everyone respects you. You are such a smart kid.” Spot smiled at the compliment but shook her head. “Don’t be humble. You’re smarter than me and Tiny put together. It’s a right shame you’re here and not using that genius brain for something bigger than sellin’ papes.” 

He patted a spot on the corner of the bed, and Spot took the opportunity to sit. “It’s not something you need to be thinking about right now. That’s far off. But you get why I can’t have someone who’s supposed to be a leader runnin’ around punching people. Makes us look… rash. And you’re too damn smart to make rash decisions.” He reached out and ruffled her hair. “And just know that if you need anything to find me or Tiny. If Tomcat did something that really deserves a soakin’ we can take care of it in other ways, yeah?”

Spot nodded. “I’ll do better.”

He smiled and nudged her arm. “That’s our girl.” He stood and said, “It’s almost seven. Let’s get Racetrack back across the bridge.”

As they walked with Tony to catch the last carriage to Manhattan, Spot wanted nothing more than to tell him everything Shiner had said, but with the older newsie on their tails she thought it best to wait. She waved to him and watched his carriage disappear into the crowd, reminding herself that she still had years before she had to think about the big news she’d learned. 

The future King of Brooklyn walked back to the lodging house with the current one, both silently contemplating the responsibility that comes with the title, a future responsibility about which Spot was tentatively optimistic.


	4. The Pickpocket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1893
> 
> TW: smoking, stealing

“Mornin’, boys!” Shiner’s voice rang through the lodging house. 

Spot was already awake, ready for the day to begin. After months of selling at Sheepshead, Spot had finally gotten the go-ahead from Shiner to go back to her shop corner near Queens. She was thrilled she would finally get to see her buddy George again. 

Not that she didn’t like Sheepshead or selling with Tony. She loved selling with Tony. He made the time go by quickly and the atmosphere of the races was always exciting. But she missed her talks with Georgie and the occasional penny candy he would give her for free. 

Tiny banged on the doorframe as he walked past. “Hey, Conlon! Racetrack’s here!” 

“Comin’!” Spot tied her boot laces and popped her cap on her head. She fiddled with her hair — it was getting too long and she needed a haircut. It was almost long enough to braid like some of the other girls, and Spot didn’t like it. 

“Conlon!” Shiner yelled from the stairs.

“Yeah!” She ceased fiddling and grabbed her bag. 

She met Shiner at the bottom of the stairs. Tony, or Racetrack as the other boys called him, was working the room, shaking hands and cracking jokes. 

Shiner motioned to Racetrack. “You two sellin’ at Sheepshead today?”

“Nah,” Spot shook her head, “I’m gonna take him up to Georgie’s.”

He nodded. “All right. Be sure Racetrack’s on a carriage by seven at the latest. Mrs. Kirby’s gettin’ more strict about unregistered overnighters.”

“You got it.” Spot shook his hand and turned toward Racetrack, who was now in the middle of some dramatic story. He spoke with his whole body, hands almost flailing and body rising and falling to emphasize the emotions of the story. His facial expressions were what made it, though. He was like a right Vaudeville actor, the Brooklyn lodging house his theater and the newsies his captive audience. 

Spot could tell Race had reached the punchline when he sat back on his heels and returned his cigar to his lips, a satisfied smirk on his face and the newsies around him bursting into laughter. 

“Higgins!”

He looked over, still smirking around the unlit cigar. “Conlon!”

She strode over and clapped him on the shoulder, her typical greeting of hello, and he patted her shoulder with the opposite hand in response. Where Spot was less physical, Race was openly affectionate with the other newsies, often greeting them with hugs and keeping his arm around them during conversations, though still respecting boundaries with the more guarded of the bunch. Spot assumed it was his heavily Italian upbringing that made him so physical just as Spot’s own Irish one did the opposite. 

“Ready to go?” he asked.

Spot nodded. “Let’s hit the streets.” She waved at the others as she waded toward the door through the crowd of newsies. 

Piker, standing against the doorframe, punched her in the arm. “Come on, Spottie! Don’t take him away! Let someone else have a turn for once!” She snatched at Spot’s hat, but the smaller girl ducked and held onto the cap to avoid Pike’s thieving hand. 

Spot squealed a laugh as she escaped the crowd into the streets of Brooklyn, Racetrack hot at her heels. The winter air whipped at her face as they ran toward the nearest circulation wagon, snow crunching under their feet as they created a new path in last night’s fresh snowfall. The line was short when they reached the wagon, and they fell in among the other newsies all bundled up in heavy coats and faded winter garb. 

“How many today?” Race asked. “Maybe fifty or so each would be good. There’s probably not going to be a whole lot of people at the races on account of all the snow.”

“Fifty sounds good, but I was thinkin’ we could try somewhere new today?” Spot tried to sound nonchalant, but she was very much looking forward to returning to her old stomping grounds up north.

Race looked at her and raised an eyebrow.

“There’s a shop near Queens where I used to sell. Shiner said we can go back there if we wanted to and not have to walk all the way to Sheepshead.” The newsies in front of them took their papes and walked off to the side, and Spot shrugged as she stepped forward. “It’s closer than Sheepshead and we’ll probably get more foot traffic this time of year.”

Spot paid for their papers and Race took them, rifling through the bundles to ensure they both had their alotted fifty each. He nodded as he said, “You seem to have got this all figured out already.”

Spot took her bundle and set it inside her bag. Race had a bad poker face, as much as he would like to think the opposite. He was clearly disappointed they wouldn’t be going down to Sheepshead, but Spot assured him, “How’s we try this for today, then if it stinks we do somethin’ else tomorrow?”

Race sighed and conceded, “That’s fine.” He pointed northward. “Lead the way.”

She did, trying the whole way to make conversation with an unwilling Race. That was one thing about him that got on Spot’s nerves. For someone who regularly lost when he bet on the races, he didn’t seem to know how to deal with not getting his way. He became pouty and passive-aggressive, even to Spot, his best friend. She gave up on conversing about halfway to Georgie’s, allowing the two of them to walk in semi-awkward silence as they both became aware of the growing cold in the air.

As they rounded the last corner, Spot could see the white storefront and green awning of Georgie’s drugstore, her heart filling with warmth and excitement. “We’re here!”

She trotted up to the front door and peeked through the window. Nothing seemed to have changed in the last six or so months. A sign Spot knew to read “Ice Cream and Sodapop” hung high in the glass, which revealed a marble countertop lined with barstools in the same green as the awning outside. An elderly man stood behind the counter, polishing glasses and whistling. 

Spot smiled and opened the door. Race followed behind her, unsure of why they were going inside when papers were usually best to sell outside. 

“Good mornin’, Georgie!”

The man looked up at the kids, realization dawning on his face as he recognized the little blonde even after months. “Scotty!”

He came around the counter and ruffled the cap on Spot’s head. Georgie was forgetful sometimes, so Spot was thrilled he remembered her, even if he did occasionally think her name was Scott.

Spot motioned to Race, who was standing back from the conversation. “I want you to meet my buddy, Tony!”

The other newsie pulled his glove off as he offered his hand. “Call me Racetrack.” Race winked at Spot so subtly she almost missed it, and Georgie definitely missed it as he shook his hand.

“Nice to meet you, my boy!” He set his polishing rag on the counter. “You kids are hawkin’ papers in this weather?” 

Spot nodded. “Gotta make rent somehow.”

Georgie shook his head and whistled. “It’s mighty cold out there. Do come in and let me know if you need anything. A break, a glass of water.” He smiled and leaned in toward them, looking around as though he was about to let them in on a secret. “I think I might even have some of that Java coffee you like.”

Spot let out an audible gasp. “Georgie, no! We couldn’t! It’s so much money!”

He chuckled and shrugged. “It’ll go to waste if you don’t drink it, Scotty! It’s much too sweet for me.” He shook his head dramatically, like he was trying to shake away the thought. 

She rolled her eyes and conceded. “At least let me pay you.”

“Nonsense. It’s the least I could do now that my favorite boy is back!” He laughed again as he retreated back behind his counter. “The same goes for you, of course!” Race looked up, realizing Georgie was speaking to him. “Any friend of Scotty’s is a friend of mine!”

Race smiled and looked away, suddenly becoming shy. He tipped his hat. “Thank you, sir.”

They braced themselves as they stepped back out into the cold. Spot shoved her gloved hands in her pockets as they waited for their first customer to come by. 

It wasn’t actively snowing at the moment, but the wind bit at their noses and the bright sun could have blinded them as it reflected off the snowbanks. This sleepy residential part of Brooklyn that Georgie called home didn’t seem to have fully woken up, as the roads and walkways were still almost pristinely covered with untouched snow. The noises of the Brooklyn hustle and bustle were still audible, but Georgie’s street corner was far enough away that Spot could easily tune out the white noise. 

Spot sold her first pape of the day to a woman in a long black coat who insisted she use the money to buy a scarf so as not to freeze to death, but the kids found this ridiculous. It would take a lot more than the penny she offered Spot to buy a scarf, even if she saved every penny that came her way. 

“People with money don’t get what it’s like not to have money,” Race mused, reaching into his pocket and basically dancing in place to keep warm. He took out his cigar and handed a match and piece of sandpaper to Spot. As she struck it alight he continued, “Savin’ money ain’t as easy as it sounds.”

He leaned so the tip of the cigar caught flame, then after a moment pulled away and let out a puff of smoke. Spot dropped the match in the snow and stomped it out as she teased, “At least I actually save money! I know better than to waste it on stuff like cigars!” 

Race gave her a quizzical look. “First of all, cigars are never a waste of money. And two,” he held up the cigar, “you really think I buy these?”

Spot had just assumed he had. She knew he didn’t come from money, which is why he sold papes in the first place. But he had a family and a place to call home, and that somehow made him seem richer in Spot’s mind. 

Spot had clearly taken too long to respond, because Race sighed and handed off the cigar, cocking his head back toward the road. “Watch and learn.”

Spot stood back, cigar in hand, and watched as Race took a pape from his bag and turned on the charm. “Morning pape! Buy a mornin’ pape!” A young man approached, clearly uninterested in buying, but Race stepped right into his path. “Mornin’ pape, sir?”

The man barely slowed down as he waved his hand dismissively. Still Race persisted, pacing back a couple of steps to stay in front of him. “You sure? Only a penny!”

The man patted his jacket pocket as he walked then shrugged. “Ah, must have forgotten my wallet.”

Race stopped basically on a dime, and the man bumped right into him. “Pardon me, sir!” The man continued on as Race rotated to face him as he walked away. “Have a good one!”

Once the would-be customer had crossed the next street, Race turned to Spot. He took his hand from his pocket, now holding a black velvet pouch. 

Spot’s eyes widened as if Race had just pulled off an unbelievable magic trick. "How the hell—”

“Just simple sleight of hand,” he responded, pulling open the wallet and rifling through its contents. “Not that big of a deal.”

He pulled out a shiny silver quarter and Spot bolted forward for a better look. “But how’d ya do it? He must’ve felt it!”

“Easy.” A cocky smile spread across his face. He relished in the fact that he knew something Spot didn’t. “Here, lemme show ya.” He drew closed the strings on the bag as he reached forward and plopped it in Spot’s pocket. “Walk toward me.”

She took a few tentative steps before Race turned on the facade once more. “Good mornin’ miss! You’re lookin’ so lovely, a lovely lady like you care for a mornin’ pape?” 

Spot said nothing as she slowed to a stop, one eyebrow raised in confusion. 

Race rolled his eyes. “Ya gotta say no, and keep walkin’!” he instructed. “Try again.” He backed up a few steps then motioned for Spot to walk. As she did, he once again laid it on thick. “Mornin’ miss! Care for a newspaper?”

Spot shook her head and kept walking. Race followed in the same way he had before, walking backward to keep facing Spot. “You’re sure? Got some great stories today!”

She once again shook her head and Race stopped so quickly Spot almost tripped over his foot. As they collided, she felt his hand slip into her pocket. It was only there for a split second before the new pressure was gone, as was the wallet. She turned back toward him as he waved the pouch triumphantly. 

“Well, that still doesn’t make sense ‘cause I felt it. I woulda known you’d taken it if it’d been me.”

Race shrugged and opened up the wallet. “Well it usually works. Grownups ain’t so keen to pay attention to kids like us, ‘specially when we’s sellin’ somethin’. Plus—” He handed Spot a handful of pennies and dimes. “—he had it in his jacket, you had it in your pants pocket. That’s gotta make a difference.” 

Spot thumbed through the coins as she spoke. “How’d you know it was in his pocket? How’d you know where to look?”

He chuckled. “That was just lucky. He patted his jacket pocket and said he didn’t have his wallet. So, naturally, I went for the jacket pocket.”

“Naturally.”

“Sometimes I try and they got nothin’ in their pockets, or sometimes they got somethin’ fun. Like one time I got a silver matchsafe with a horse on it.” Race nodded like he was very proud of this particular bounty. 

“And sometimes you get a cigar.”

He smiled. “And sometimes, they’s even good ones.” He reached to take the cigar from her hand. “Won this one in a poker game back at the house. Ten-Pin snagged it from some jerk cop near the Hudson. It’s a Corona.”

Spot had no idea what that meant, but she inferred from his tone that it was very good and probably very expensive. He put the cigar in his mouth as he dumped the contents of the black bag into his pocket. Then, much to Spot’s confusion, he tossed the bag behind a pile of crates. “What was that for?”

“Dispose of the evidence,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, then he grabbed her arm. “Now we gotta go.”

“What? Why?”

He pulled her across the road, looking back after where the man had gone. “Once he realizes his wallet’s gone, he’s gonna come back, and he ain’t gonna be happy. I wanna be gone when that happens.” 

She, too, looked over her shoulder. It made sense. It was probably best to leave the scene before the poor guy realized he’d been duped. “Hey, wait— wait!”

She stopped and pulled her arm from his grasp as he turned around impatiently. “What?”

She pointed back at the store. “Georgie, he’s gonna notice if we go.”

Race looked back and forth between Spot and the storefront. “So?”

“So if we’re gonna go, I wanna tell him first so’s he don’t come lookin’ for us.”

He rolled his eyes and waved her off, following as she jogged back to the store. They entered to the jingle of the bell on the door, and George looked up from the drink he was fixing for a customer. “Gettin’ cold already, boys?” He gestured them toward the stools, welcoming them to sit. “I’ll fix up some coffee if you’ll give me a minute.”

Spot shook her head. “We was just about to head off. Business seems to be a bit slow so we’s goin’ to find somewhere with more customers.”

George raised an eyebrow as he sat the glass in front of his other customer. “Is that so?” He came around the counter toward them. “Well then, before you go I have something I’d like you to do for me if you would.” 

He motioned for them to follow as he hobbled down an aisle toward the back of the store. Spot followed diligently, and Race kept at her heels. George led them out the back door into an alley, where crates full of soaps and other novelties sat stacked against the wall. 

He waved a hand at the stock and said, “New shipment came in today, but I haven’t got the chance to take count and stock the shelves.” He turned to the kids. “Would you mind terribly moving some of this into the store? Junior’s been out of town so I’ve had to do everything on my own, and my joints have been getting worse.” 

He pulled a pencil and sheet of paper from a pocket and handed them to Spot. She nodded. “Of course, Georgie. You know I always got time to help you out.” 

Georgie beamed and ruffled Spot’s cap. “Thank you plenty. I’ll put your coffee on so it’s brewed when you get done.” He then shut the door behind him, leaving it open just a crack, as he headed back inside. 

Spot handed the pencil and paper off to Race and pulled the first crate off the stack. It was full of soap, bars stacked neatly three by four by five. She began counting them one by one, but Race was faster. 

“Sixty.” 

He jotted the number down on the paper and scrawled the word “soap” as Spot just looked up at him in confusion. She had no idea how he had figured that out so fast, but she trusted him enough to move on. The next crate also contained sixty bars of soap, which Race said meant there were 120 bars total. Spot decided to leave the numbers to him as she began loading the items into the store. She carried the first crate into the shop, careful not to damage the tile floor when she sat it down. She slid handfuls of soap in boxes onto the nearly-empty shelf, then traded the empty crate for the next full one on her second trip. 

When all 120 individual boxes were shelved, she returned to find Race counting out boxes of matches and eyeing the nearby crate of cigars. Spot knew he wouldn’t take any if she asked him not to, but she took it upon herself anyway to count the cigars herself while he finished up with the matches. She couldn’t do the math like he could, but she rifled through the box quickly enough to count 126 cigars, individually packaged. She carried the crate inside as Race wrote down the number and followed her in with the crate of matches. They found their respective shelves and stocked in silence. 

When they were done, Race took their crates back into the alley and Spot went to the counter with their final tally of goods. She could smell coffee waiting for them as she approached and set the list and pencil in front of the cash register. Georgie took the list and handed her a mug of fresh coffee, the scent filling the air and the warmth already thawing her cold hands as she took it. Soon after, Race was sat on a stool next to her, his own mug held close as he thanked Georgie for his kindness. 

Spot and Georgie caught up while the kids sipped their coffee. Georgie’s son, Junior, was taking a job in Washington and had been out of town, leaving Georgie with little help in the store save his grandchildren, who were in school during the day. Spot told Georgie about her escapades in Sheepshead, careful not to omit any detail about her and Race’s adventures. Race sat by and listened, chiming in every once in a while but otherwise silent. 

They were interrupted, however, by the return of Race’s pickpocketing victim. Spot saw him out of the corner of her eye just as he stormed into the shop, waving his finger at the newsies. Race’s eyes went wide and he froze in surprise as the man spoke. 

“You thieving imps! You stole my wallet!”

Spot was reinvigorated with a sudden confidence, and she stood to face him. “But sir, didn’t you tell us you forgot your wallet at home?”

His eyes narrowed and he shook his head. “I know you took it, so give it back or I’ll get the police involved.”

He reached for her, but she jumped out of the way and scurried to stand between him and the door. Georgie came around the counter to her defense. “Son, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

The man blanched and stumbled over his words. “But— but I know they took it!”

Georgie crossed his arms over his chest. “If Scott says he didn’t take it, then I believe he didn’t take it. But I won’t have people coming into my business and shouting at children! Maybe you _did_ actually forget your wallet. I suggest you go home and find out.”

The man stood silent for a moment, fuming, then glared at Spot and marched toward the door, purposefully bumping into her hard as he passed. Spot stumbled but regained her balance as Georgie put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t pay no attention to folks like that. They’ll find anything to complain about and anyone to blame it on.” His brow furrowed, a pointed look that tried to discern the truth. “Tell me, Scott. Did you take that man’s wallet?” 

She hadn’t. She shook her head. 

Georgie nodded. “Good.” He retreated back behind the counter, then looked back at her, a conniving twinkle in his eye. “Although if you had, I wouldn’t blame you. He seemed like he deserved it.” 

Race joined Spot at the door as Georgie returned to work. The two thanked him once again for his hospitality, then they ventured back out onto the cold Brooklyn streets. 

“Thanks for coverin’ for me,” Race said through chattering teeth. 

Spot shrugged. “It was nothin’.” 

She smirked to herself, then elbowed him. He looked at her, expectant. She peeked over her shoulder for any sign of the man from before, then pulled her hand from her pocket to reveal a cigar, barely used. 

Race’s eyes went wide as he took it. “How’d you…”

She shushed him and he nodded, examining the cigar. He regarded her once more as he whispered, “Did you steal this?”

She bobbed her head, noncommittal. “I’s a fast learner.” She met his gaze. “And Georgie did say he deserved it.” 

Race chuckled and turned the cigar once more in his hands. He held it out to her, but she shook her head, indicating for him to keep it, and the pickpockets tromped through the snow and toward the bridge with coffee on their breath and a newfound confidence in each other. 


	5. The Student

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1893

Spot knew her secret was about to be revealed when Race asked one morning, “What’s the headline today?”

She had their papers in her hand, but she could not read the headline. She could identify most of the letters, but she was at a complete loss on the words they formed.

It wasn’t her fault. Mum couldn’t read, nor had Bridget learned to read. And Spot had become self-conscious about her illiteracy when she started selling papers. She had practiced writing enough to recognize her name — making it easier to sign herself in and out of the lodge when needed — but she’d always faked her way through everything else.

But right now, Race was waiting for her to read the paper. She stared at the page, trying to put together even one word.

“Um…”

She recognized the letter C. The first letter of her last name. That one was easy. The next was an H. Then an I. Another C. Another H? A C with a weird line. An O.

Utter gibberish.

“C…” she began, like the beginning of “Conlon” or the end of “Racetrack." “H…” like the sound at the beginning of “horses." “Um…”

“Spot?”

She looked up from the page. Race was eyeing her with confusion, brows knitted together. He stepped forward and took his bundle. After scanning the letters, he said, “Chicago,” then looked back to her.

Spot felt her face flush. “Right. Yeah. I was getting there.”

His expression didn’t change. He looked around for a moment making sure nobody else was listening then asked, “Spot, can you read?”

“I mean…” Her chest tightened and she broke eye contact. “I mean, I can read.”

She must not have been convincing, because Race didn’t buy it. “Hey, it’s okay if you can’t, I just always thought you could.”

“I can read!” she insisted. “That’s just a hard word!”

Race considered this then shrugged. “Yeah, I guess it’s hard, but… Let’s just talk on the way.”

He led them on the road towards Queens, a few blocks from the wagon before he asked again.

“You can tell me things, you know. I ain’t gonna make fun of you if you don’t know how to read.”

Spot sighed. “Yeah, so I don’t know how to read. Piss off about it, why don’t ya.”

“I just said I ain’t makin’ fun! No need to get all defensive.”

He was right. He was just trying to help but she’d jumped down his throat. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“I can try to teach you if you want.”

She involuntarily glared at him out of the corner of her eye. She didn’t like relying on anyone else for anything. She was self-sufficient. He wasn’t trying to flaunt the fact that he could do something she couldn’t, but her ego was bruised now that her secret was out.

He took her non-response as an invitation to proceed. “Ya gotta start with letters. Like A-B-C—”

He began singing the children’s song to explain the alphabet, but Spot interrupted. “I already know the letters. Skip ahead.”

He contemplated for a moment then pulled one of yesterday’s papers from his bag. “Let’s practice, then. Point out an A.”

She took the pape and began searching. Her first guess was wrong, confusing an H for an A.

“Here’s the difference.” Race pointed at two similar-looking letters. “It’s an A if they come together at the top, but an H if they don’t.”

Spot nodded, committing the fact to memory. She scanned the page further, then pointed tentatively at a letter she thought was an A. “Is that one?”

Race nodded vehemently. “Yeah! Exactly! Now, what about a B?”

She found it quickly, recognizing the letter as a P with two bumps instead of one. They continued on like this through the rest of the alphabet, stumbling over the difference between M and N and W but otherwise successfully identifying most letters. Then Race told her that every letter also had a small version and she almost gave up on reading completely.

"Let's just work with the big letters for now!” he reassured her. They were halfway to Georgie’s and Spot was getting tired of the mental gymnastics, but she nodded anyway. “Start at the top and just tell me which letters they are.”

And so she did. “T… H?” Race nodded. “E. W-O-R-L-D.”

“Perfect! Now try to sound it out.”

“T” — like the end of “Spot” — “H” — like the beginning of “Higgins” — but Race stopped her there.

“Whenever T and H are together, they sound like ‘th’, like in the middle of ‘together.’”

She nodded and tried again. T. H. “Th…” The last letter in the word was E, which was tricky. It could make multiple sounds. It didn’t feel right to use the sound like elephant, so it must be a sound like in the word eagle. “The? The!”

“The!” Race repeated as he grinned. “Keep going!”

W. “W…” An O, which could also make multiple sounds. She contemplated some more, then was struck by a realization.

She was reading the name of the paper. _The World_.

“The World! W-world,” she slowly sounded out, emphasizing each individual letter.

The rest of the way to Georgie’s she put sounds together in an attempt to form words, realizing that there were lots of letters that made multiple sounds and that they didn’t always make the sound you thought they would. She was particularly peeved that putting an E on the end of the word could change how the other letters sounded, as she found out when reading a headline that included the word “fire.”

Upon arriving at Georgie’s, Race pointed to a sign in the window. “Try that one!”

Spot already knew what it said — Ice Cream and Sodapop — but sounded the words out to practice. I-C-E — the E on the end made the I sound like the beginning of “ice.” C-R-E-A-M — C and R were easy in this word, but the E and A, she wagered, came together to make the “ea” sound. A-N-D. Plain and simple. S-O-D-A-P-O-P would also have been easy except for the fact that both of the O sounds were different — the O in “soda” was different from the O in “pop.” She would get the hang of it, she knew.

Race started hawking papers while Spot went inside to say hello to Georgie. The bell jingled as she entered, but she didn’t see Georgie behind the counter. She looked down a couple of rows to find him poking his head in the back door.

She smiled and waved. “Mornin’ Georgie! It’s Spot and Racetrack!”

He smiled back at her then gestured for her to follow. She cantered down the aisle and into the alley, where Georgie had clearly been taking stock of a recent delivery.

“Need some help?” she offered.

“Yes, my boy, if you don’t mind.” He gestured to the crates sitting about. “I’ve counted everything out, I believe, I just need some help getting these inside.”

“You got it, Georgie.”

He pointed at one of the crates and said, “This one is the heaviest, and my old bones are giving me some trouble. They’re metal straight razors. If you could take them inside behind the counter and stock them, that would be lovely. There’s a shelf labeled ‘razors’ on the back wall.”

Spot nodded. Now was the time to put her new skills to the test. She grabbed the box and started inside.

Surely she could match up the letters on the shelves to the letters on the boxes if all else failed, but first she wanted to try her hand at reading without Race to help her.

She ducked behind the counter and found the labeled shelves.

Razor. Rrrrrazor. R.

Unfortunately, Georgie’s scrawl was less clean than the letters she read typed out in the paper. But eventually Spot located three shelves that started with the letter R.

Figuring out the next letter she needed was easy.

Razor. R-A.

Two shelves were labeled with R-A. The other, Spot noted, was R-I. She was slowly but surely narrowing it down.

She picked out the letters on the first label. R-A… that damned C with a weird line on it. What had Race said that one was?

G.

R-A-G-S. She sounded it out. “R” like “razor” — “A” like “ace” — “G” like “Georgie” — and “S” like “Spot.” She didn’t think that was how the word was actually pronounced, but whatever it was, it wasn’t “razor.”

Onto the next.

R-A-Z-O-R-S. “R” like “razor” — “A” like “ace” — “Z” like… Spot couldn’t think of anything but “zoo” — “O” like how it sounds in her name — “R” like “razor” — “S” like “Spot.” She didn’t pronounce it quite right the first time, but it definitely said “razors.”

She couldn’t help the smile that darted across her face when she read the word. Razors. And she’d read it all by herself. She stocked the razors on the shelf still smirking.

Georgie insisted on paying her whenever she helped him out, and today was no different. She and Race hawked their papers sipping on sweet apple cider. It proved a pretty uneventful day, but Spot was proud of the strides she had made to better herself, Race providing a helping hand.

R-A-C-E, he’d told her. Race.


	6. The Poker Player

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1893
> 
> TW: gambling, minor swearing

The selling day had gone by quickly for Spot and Race, not only because of the easy-to-sell headlines but also because of a surprise Piker had promised them at the beginning of the day. 

“Be back by dinner,” Piker’d said before they’d left. “I got somethin’ special for ya.”

So now Spot and Race were on a carriage back to the Heights, making conversation with the driver who had been kind enough to give them a ride from the racetrack. 

They arrived at the stop nearest the lodge around thirty minutes later to find Piker sitting on the floor of the common area with a book. Spot had no idea how she could afford the collection of dime novels she seemed to have on hand. She was always reading something new. This one was orange, an elaborately-illustrated image of a cowboy leaning on a rifle on the front cover. 

“Pike!” Spot called, but Piker waved her off.

“Almost done with this chapter! Go grab some dinner. I’ll be right down.”

And so they did. They sat with Hank and some of the younger boys who sold near the lodge, including a newcomer named Lucky Lucy who, like Race, had an affinity for gambling. Unlike Race, however, Lucky always seemed to bet on the right horse. Hank and Spot’s bunkmates joined them, a couple of ten-year-olds called Myron and Hot Shot. Hank suddenly became outnumbered at the table by younger kids and started on his well-rehearsed rant about how Mrs. Kirby should comp his rent because of how often he had to nanny the kids.

Piker had clearly told most of the lodge about her surprise, as her entrance into the dining hall was marked with a chorus of newsies joyously welcoming her.

“What is it, Pike? The suspense is killing us!” Hank called over the din.

“I got somethin’ real good for poker night!” came her response. “That is, if you think you can beat me.”

“You’re on!” Lucky accepted.

As the others also accepted the challenge, Spot turned to Race. He wasn’t looking at her, but around the room, presumably at his competition. His eyes were alight and Spot could see his mind running a mile a minute.

“You in?” she asked, calling his attention.

“Oh, yeah.” 

She should’ve known. Race rarely turned down a challenge, especially when it came to gambling. In fact, he was already reaching into his pocket and thumbing through his earnings for the day. 

“What’s the ante?”

“A nickel!” Piker told him as she headed for the dinner line.

“You sure you want to bet your earnings today?” Spot asked. “You never played with these guys. They’s ruthless.” She nodded over her shoulder. “Hank’s pretty good. He’s good at hedging his bets. Then Pike,” she pointed across the room, “she plays like she’s got nothin’ to lose.” She leaned in closer and whispered to him conspiratorially. “The one you really gotta watch out for is Lucky. The fellas think she cheats but I really think she’s just that good. Before you know it, you’ll be left with empty pockets but still be lookin’ for somethin’ to bet against her.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he responded with a wink. “What about you?”

“I’m thinkin’ about it.” Spot raised her voice. “Maybe once Piker tells us what she’s got up her sleeve!”

“All right! All right!” she responded as she sat across from them. “You want to know what I got to bet?” 

Piker reached into her pocket, then a coin was flying at Spot’s face. She caught it one-handed and turned it over. A shiny silver dollar. A whole dollar coin.

“That enough to convince you, Spottie?” Piker smirked across the table.

Spot chuckled. “I ain’t wastin’ my hard-earned money for that!”

She felt Race elbow her in the shoulder. “C’mon, Spot! Play one round with us. Just a nickel!”

The others at the table egged her on as she briefly mulled it over. “Fine. One round.” Piker cheered in response. “But only one! No way you can talk me into gamblin’ a day’s earnings just to lose it all.” 

“Wanna bet?” Lucky quipped as she snagged the silver dollar from Spot’s hand. The coin made its way around the table, Piker’s watchful eye aware of it every step of the way.

After dinner, the group made their way to the barrack where everyone collected the various decks of cards hidden throughout the building. Mrs. Kirby didn’t like gambling and so confiscated their cards when she caught them playing any kind of poker, which meant everyone just had to be sneaky. They collected three decks total, and the twenty or so players divided up into groups. 

Spot found herself in a group with Race, Hank, and a few younger boys that Spot knew were really no threat. Myron had volunteered as their dealer and shuffled the cards while the rest of them procured the required ante. 

Race was a better poker player than Spot had thought. Within minutes he’d knocked everyone out of the game except for her and Hank. Spot had played with Hank enough to know his tell — he nervously tapped his fingers against his cards when he was bluffing. But she couldn’t figure out Race. Any tic she thought could be his tell was just part of how he acted. He was always cocking his head or twitching his nose or doing things that would surely indicate bluffing in anyone else. But that was just how Race acted regularly. 

Spot knew her own tell. She chewed the inside of her cheek. She used to chew on her lip when she bluffed, but it was such an obvious tell that she had to forcibly modify it for the sake of easier lying. 

“I raise,” Hank said as he tossed a penny into the pot, fingers tapping nervously. 

“Call,” Race responded as he stared him down across the circle. 

Spot’s hand had been shit and she’d folded earlier on, so all focus was back on Hank. 

“Raise.” He added another penny. He tapped against the cards in his hand.

Race simply added to the pile, nonverbally signalling his call. 

The tapping stopped. Hank stared pointedly at Race, who didn’t back down. He’d clearly figured out Hank’s tell and was tempting him, as he’d temped the others, to bet it all. 

He was good. Spot would give him that.

Hank only had two pennies left. He’d dipped further than a nickel into his earnings, betting almost twenty cents in total on the game, and Race was now calling his bluff. He had to hold up or back down with his tail between his legs. 

Race, however, very much had the upper hand. He’d collected the majority of Hank’s twenty cents and knew the last few were very much within reach. Spot tried to identify if he could also be bluffing. He was leaning forward, not breaking eye contact with Hank. He was sitting with his legs crossed, elbows leaning on his knees. His right hand held his cards almost upside down, and his left hand was laid nonchalantly over the right. He raised his eyebrows as though to dare Hank to make his move. 

He just sighed. “All in.” And Hank added his last two pennies to the pot. 

“Call.” Race tossed in two of his own.

They both laid down their cards face-up. Race had a pair of eights. Hank had nothing. Race collected the pot as Hank sighed. 

“Who let the Manhattan kid play?” he joked. He was only half-kidding. 

It was down to Race and Spot. Whoever won would compete against the other groups’ winners for the whole pot, including Piker’s silver dollar coin. 

The two tossed in their initial blind bets as Myron dealt their hands. Spot had pretty good odds and so raised by a penny. Then Race raised by a nickel. 

Spot looked over at him. He was making eye contact. Leaning casually on his elbows as before, seemingly apathetic in the way he held his cards. Either he wasn’t bluffing or he had lying down to a science. She didn’t like being on this side of that look. She folded. 

“Damn!” Race chuckled as he collected the pot. “I wanted to see if you’d bet more.” He tossed down his hand. Full house, tens and aces. Not bluffing. 

Spot won the next hand, her own two pairs beating out Race’s nothing hand. Spot kicked herself for not noticing what had been different when he tried to bluff. 

But after a few crappy hands, she was in the doghouse, close to out of money. Then she raised when she probably should have folded. She felt herself subconsiously bite the inside of her cheek, hoping Race wouldn’t notice or hadn’t yet figured out her tell. 

Race looked at his own cards, then at the pot, then at Spot’s remaining change, then at Spot herself. He scrutinized her face as he called her bet. After a moment of tension, Spot raised again. Race called. Spot raised. Race called. Spot went all in. Race called. They finally laid down their hands.

Both had shit hands, but Spot’s high card of an ace outranked Race’s nine. Hank let out a dramatic gasp. They’d both been bluffing. Relieved, Spot collected the pot as Race continued to scrutinize. Spot had no idea if he’d found what he was looking for, but she once again had a fighting chance of beating him.

But he worked her down bit by bit until they were the last group still playing. The others watched from a distance, waiting to see who would play the other groups’ champions — Piker and Lucky Lucy, no surprise to anyone — in the final round. Hot Shot, who’d clearly been eliminated earlier on and volunteered to deal the last game, was absently shuffling a deck of cards as he watched the drama unfold. 

Spot had three Jacks. Could go either way. Race was staring her down, waiting for her to call his bet or to fold. She called. He looked at his cards, then back at her. He raised by three cents. She glanced down at the last of her change. Three cents would leave her with one penny. She folded. Race collected the pot and set down his cards.

Nothing. He’d had absolutely nothing. The bastard had been bluffing. 

The others chorused an “ooh” and Myron’s eyebrows shot up. For a dealer, he wasn’t very stoic. 

Spot went out not with a bang but with a whimper. After the drama of Race bluffing her down to four cents, she couldn’t get any traction and lost her last penny on a hand where her high card of seven lost to Race’s ten. Still, she’d lasted longer against him than she thought she would, and she was itching to see how he would fare against the more seasoned players of Brooklyn. 

The three champions circled up, Hot Shot showing off some fancy shuffling skills as everyone else settled in to watch the match. 

“Hey!” came a voice from the end of the room.

Everyone turned to see Shiner and Tiny in the doorway, Shiner’s arms outstretched in a questioning pose. 

“It’s almost midnight. You kids shoulda been asleep hours ago.” Shiner was right, but noises of disappointment rang from the peanut gallery anyway. 

“We just got done with preliminaries!” Lucky protested. “We ain’t even dealt our first hand!”

“Then take it elsewhere. Everyone under the age of nine’s gotta go to bed. Nine and older can do what they want so long as you ain’t bein’ disruptive.” 

It was a fair enough arrangement. The younger kids slunk off to bed, and everyone older migrated to the third floor hallway, far enough away from the barrack that they could play without disturbing anyone. 

Piker had several tells. She tended to be confident and reckless in her bets, but only until an opponent starts taking her seriously. Holding up against her bets made her react one of two ways — if she had a good hand, she would continue to bet without question, but if she had a bad hand, her bets were often less confident and she would take a longer time on her turns. Her eyebrows were also very expressive, giving her away when she didn’t realize her tell was showing. It wasn’t long before Race clearly caught on, and he and Lucky together knocked her out with ease. 

Lucky, like Race, was hard to read. She was stoic and played the part well. Something that would have been a clear tell in anyone else could go either way with her. She was known to fake a tell to trick her opponents, and it often worked. Playing her was the most Spot had seen Race struggle the whole night. 

“Ya know,” he said after losing a close hand, “it’s a shame we ain’t met before.” 

“Yeah?” Lucky responded. During poker, she was a lady of few words, but outside of cards no one could get her to shut up. 

Race on the other hand was always a loudmouth. “If I’d known there was actually some good poker players in Brooklyn, I’da stayed late more often.”

Hot Shot dealt the next hand. The players took a look at their cards.

“I’s surprised to find out there’s actually good poker players outside of Brooklyn,” Lucky sassed back. “Check.”

“Raise you two.” Race added two pennies to the pot. 

Without looking back at her cards, Lucky mirrored him. “Call.”

Race cocked his head. “Check.” 

Lucky knocked on the floor, her nonverbal check. She returned two of her cards to Hot Shot, who dealt one card to burn then dealt Lucky two. Race’s eyes did not leave Lucky’s face as she picked up her new cards and added them to her hand. 

Race glanced at his own hand then traded out three. His expression didn’t change, but he leaned forward and spoke again. “You ever bet on the races?”

“Only once.” Lucky tossed a couple of coins into the pot. “Won a pretty penny.”

“Hm.” Race absently traced designs on the back of his hand, his cards dangling from his fingers. “Beginner’s luck?” He raised the bet by a few cents. 

“I suppose.” Lucky called his bet. 

“Or maybe you’re just that good,” Race echoed Spot’s earlier comment as he raised the bet further. Spot could tell he was toying with Lucky but she couldn’t figure out how. 

Lucky’s glance darted briefly to Race’s, which was unwavering and almost effortless. She silently called his bet. 

“You good at runnin’ numbers?” He tossed another penny onto the pile.

Lucky smirked, a subtle flash that disappeared as soon as it was even noticeable. “What do you think?” She bet another penny. 

“What about countin’ cards?” Another penny on the pile.

“We don’t do that here.” Call.

Race hummed as he bet another penny. “Spot counts cards.” 

“Hey!” Spot retaliated, indignant. “I do not!”

Lucky raised an eyebrow at her and called Race’s bet. 

“If I could count cards, you think I’d let you beat me?”

“I think you let me beat you ‘cause you think I’m just so handsome.” Race gave her a shit-eating grin as he raised his bet. Lucky called.

“You better watch it or you’ll be trekkin’ to the Bay all by your lonesome, Higgins.” Spot shook her head at his audacity. “Spreadin’ lies ‘bout me ain’t gonna win you no friends.”

“No.” He raised, and Lucky called. “But it could help me win a round.”

He turned his sights back on Lucky. The pot was now piled high with coins. Nobody had gone all in, but it was about to be a big payday for someone. Race took another look at his cards, then he shrugged.

“All in.”

Tension filled the air as Race added his last few coins to the pile, including the silver dollar he’d won from Piker. It would wipe Lucky out to call his bet. 

All the same, she was considering it. Lucky stared him down, clearly searching for any sign of weakness or uncertainty. Perhaps she found one, as she said, “Call,” and submitted the last of her earnings to the pot. 

Lucky laid down her hand. A modest two pair, Kings and Queens. The peanut gallery let out an “ooh.” 

Race nodded to himself and pursed his lips. “Nice hand, Lucky.” 

But it wasn’t over, Spot thought to herself. She never bet on the races at Sheepshead, but she surely would bet on Race at poker night. 

Race sighed. “I gotta say, you’s a tough one. But you oughta make a little eye contact, and not just when you’re bluffing.” He laid down his hand.

Three Jacks. Just barely outranking Lucky’s hand. 

The crowd erupted in disbelieving cheers. Lucky gawked at the cards as Race collected his winnings and the crowd began to disperse. 

“Damn!” Lucky shook her head. “You got balls, Manhattan. I respect that.” She offered her hand for him to shake. 

He took it with a gracious nod. “I meant what I said about you bein’ a good player. You oughta come by the Manhattan lodge sometime. You could give the fellas a run for their money.”

“Damn right I could.” Lucky stood. “We need a rematch sometime, Higgins. Just wait till I figure out what makes you tick.”

Race laughed. “Sometime soon, if we’re lucky.” 

Lucky snickered at the joke and headed off to bed, waving to the rest of the crew as she disappeared into her room. 

Race turned to Spot. 

“Good game,” she congratulated him.

“Here’s your ante back.” He offered her a handful of pennies. Before she could refuse, he said, “I talked you into playing and roped you into that last hand with Lucky, so just take your damn nickel back. It ain’t like I’m makin’ you take half or nothin’.” 

He wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so Spot pocketed the coins. 

“You think I could stay the night?”

It was almost one in the morning, so it was probably for the best if he didn’t have to walk the Bridge so late in the cold and potentially in the snow. Spot nodded. “You can sleep in my bed. Most everyone is doubled up anyway on account of the cold.” She had planned on sharing with Piker that night due to the freezing temperatures, but she was fine to share with Race if he wanted. 

“Sure,” he accepted, then offered her another coin. "Penny for your trouble?”

"Don't tempt me.”

She led them down the hall to her room, where Hank was already wrapped up in numerous blankets and snoring like a horse. Myron and Hot Shot were doubled up in one bed, cocooned in the blankets and pillows compiled from both of their bedding. 

Spot had begun sleeping with a second blanket in recent months so that Race wouldn’t ever have to borrow from anyone else, which proved a great decision when the cold front moved in. Spot set her hat and boots aside and shrugged her suspenders from her shoulders. 

It was cold enough that she left her flannel on as she climbed into bed. Race did the same, claiming a blanket and a corner of the pillow and quickly drifting off. Race’s warmth and the subtle movement of his breathing lulled Spot to sleep soon after, forgetting that only a few hours later they would be awake and back to work.


	7. The Debater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1894

Shortly after Christmas, Spot found herself without a selling partner, as a large snowstorm had restricted the newsies to selling close to their own homes. Race could hardly get across the Brooklyn Bridge, much less all the way to Sheepshead. He’d made the trek to the Brooklyn lodge once to let Spot know he’d be selling in Manhattan until the snow lightened up, and that was the last time she’d seen him. 

It didn’t bother her to be alone. On the contrary, Spot really liked selling by herself. But today, Shiner approached her with a particular job. 

“We got a meeting with some guys from Queens today,” he told her as he stood in her doorway, the hustle and bustle of the lodge continuing on behind him. “I want you to sit in. See how we do things.”

Spot nodded. “Yes, sir.” She pulled on her cap and tossed her bag over her shoulder as she followed him out into the hallway. 

She accompanied him as he made his rounds throughout the lodge, waking up stragglers and making sure the house wasn’t a complete free-for-all. He didn’t by any means stop and chat with everyone, but Spot noticed he took special care to make eye contact with everyone in the house, giving one-on-one attention to some. He checked up on a boy with a cold, made sure some of the youngest kids had something to eat before they left, and even just stopped to simply chat with a couple people. Despite his stature, Shiner wasn’t the most popular boy in the lodge, but it was impossible to say that he didn’t care about the newsies. They were his friends, his brothers, and it was clear that he made the effort to treat them as such. Spot had an immense respect for it.

After making their rounds, Spot followed Shiner downstairs, where Tiny was waiting on them. They stepped out into the cold streets of Brooklyn, and Spot moved her little legs as fast as she could to keep up with the older boys. 

“Here’s what’s going on,” Shiner started. “Some guys from Queens came by a few days ago to plan a meeting. They want to talk about establishing a neutral zone somewhere between the Bridge and the Queens border so’s they can talk to Manhattan without havin’ to take the ferry or encroach on our territory.”

“We said we’d discuss it with two of their guys plus two Manhattan guys,” Tiny added. 

Spot did the math in her head. “But that would make it four of them and three of us.”

Tiny nodded and Shiner spoke. “And that’s exactly why we’re doing what we’re doing.”

They rounded a corner and saw two intimidatingly big guys Spot vaguely recognized as newsies. She’d seen them around the lodge, but they were much older, around Shiner’s age. 

“Hey, Baron.” Tiny offered a hand to the shorter of the two intimidating boys, who turned around at the sound of his name. Baron shook Tiny’s hand, and they exchanged some conversation in a language Spot didn’t know but assumed was Creole based on Tiny’s Haitian heritage. 

“Melbourne,” Shiner addressed the other boy as he approached, hand outstretched. All four shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, then focus turned to Spot.

Shiner introduced her and she shook hands with Baron and Melbourne. “Spot’s gonna sit in on our meeting today with Queens and ‘Hattan. Care to join us?” 

It was clearly less of a question and more of a request, and even then it was less of a request and more of a demand. The boys agreed to be Shiner’s brawny backup. 

Shiner led the group toward the river, catching the newcomers up on the situation. As he had told Spot, some boys from Queens were requesting an easier way to meet with Manhattan when needed, and a couple guys from Manhattan were joining in the conversation as well. Shiner planned to offer a neutral zone along the river in between the Bridge and the Queens border where non-Brooklyn newsies could travel but were not allowed to sell. 

“It’s still Brooklyn territory, after all,” he reasoned. 

Tiny nodded. “How’s we supposed to make sure they ain’t sellin’?”

“We could have guys stationed around to make sure.”

“That ain’t reliable,” Tiny countered. “We can’t have guys watchin’ every inch of the neutral zone. That just ain’t reasonable.” 

“What if you ban papes?" Spot piped up, her eyes on the road ahead of her. She didn’t want to overstep her bounds but couldn’t help contributing to the conversation. 

The older boys just looked at her. 

“Like, you don’t have to have guys all along the neutral zone, just maybe two at the Bridge and two at the border. So anyone who comes into the neutral zone from either side gets the pat-down to make sure they don’t have papes to sell.” It seemed reasonable enough to Spot, so she garnered up the courage to continue. “Then that way you make sure the neutral zone really is neutral and nobody's encroaching on our territory.”

Shiner and Tiny looked at each other, and Shiner cocked his head as if thinking it over. 

Tiny spoke. “What about your buddy, huh? Ain’t he ‘Hattan?”

Spot didn’t know what he meant for a moment, then realized he was talking about Race. How would Race be allowed to sell in Brooklyn if they were to crack down on enforcing the border? 

Spot thought about it a moment, but Tiny wanted answers. “You want us to play favorites with your boy toy?”

“No,” was Spot’s immediate answer. It came out harsher than she’d anticipated, defensive against Tiny’s jab at their friendship, but she stuck by it. As close as she and Race were, he shouldn’t get special treatment. “He can buy his papes in Brooklyn if he wants to sell. He usually does, anyway. That way we don’t break our rules and he can keep selling here.”

Tiny scoffed.

Spot almost stopped in her tracks. “You got a problem with Race sellin’ here?”

Tiny took a breath, then exchanged a look with Shiner. Spot could tell he was biting his tongue. With a sigh, he only replied, “Nah.”

Which wasn’t a comforting answer. Race had been selling in Brooklyn for so long, Spot hadn’t even considered the fact that his presence was technically against the rules, that Tiny would be completely in the right not to like his presence on Brooklyn soil. Spot’s loyalty was torn — was it hurting her Brooklyn family to have Race around? And if so, would she ultimately decide to cut ties with him for the good of the borough? 

But he’s just one boy, Spot thought. Any harm he could be doing was not nearly enough to affect the wellbeing of the other Brooklyn newsies. It was an ethical dilemma she didn’t need to face very imminently, and so she cast the thought from her mind. 

By that time, they had arrived at a stretch of beach with a particularly picturesque view of the Manhattan skyline. Manhattan was pretty from far away, Spot mused, but Brooklyn was prettier up close. 

Shiner led them to what looked at first glance to be a pile of crates cast aside by (or more likely stolen from) fishermen. Upon closer inspection, however, the crates seemed to be stacked in a very particular fashion so as to look like a large chair. Tiny stepped forward to dust a layer of snow from the chair’s surface.

“We call this the throne room,” Shiner explained. “Whenever we need to meet with another borough, we do it here.” He gestured at the crates, which Spot realized did actually resemble a throne if you were looking for the resemblance. “On Brooklyn’s soil. On Brooklyn’s terms.” Shiner chuckled as he sat on the “throne.” “If they’re gonna call me the King of Brooklyn, I gotta act the part. And I gotta say,” he settled into a comfortable position and gave Tiny a wink, “I do a pretty damn good job of that.”

Tiny rolled his eyes but cracked a smile anyway. In fact, Spot noted that this was the loosest she’d ever seen Shiner act. She had never realized how contagious his smile was. At the lodge, he never flashed it for more than a second. Perhaps it was the fact that he was surrounded by fewer people or that he didn’t feel the need to put up the stoic front with Spot and Tiny, but Shiner seemed a much more comfortable, approachable guy than he was at the lodge.

It was a few minutes later when the front returned to Shiner's face that Spot realized the Queens delegates had arrived. Baron and Melbourne clearly knew the drill, as they stood at ease on either side of Shiner's throne. Tiny met the newcomers a few yards away, shaking their hands, but Shiner stayed seated until they approached him. He stood from his throne with the air of a military general and shook their hands, then turned to Spot. 

The Queens boys were tall and of average build both. Any of the Brooklyn newsies present could definitely take them in a fight if it came to it, even little Spot. The leader’s name was Red, a nickname Spot assumed came from his fiery hair that just barely showed under his cap. His companion was introduced as Johnny Wits, but whether the nickname was earnest or mocking of his wits Spot was yet to find out. 

After shaking their hands, Shiner returned to his seat, and the Queens boys remained standing. Anyone could see that it was an intimidation tactic, just like Shiner’s recruitment of Baron and Melbourne had been an intimidation tactic. Shiner was forcing the Queens boys to stand while he sat, demanding their respect and showing them who was in charge. 

Shortly after Queens’ arrival, a tall blond arrived from the other direction, flanked by two boys. One was dark-haired and tan, and the other was Race. 

All of the Brooklyn group tensed up except for Shiner, who casually stood from his throne and greeted them himself. Spot didn’t catch their names, as she was still taking in the surprise of seeing Race in such an unexpected situation. She shook all three of their hands, an odd formality with Race, who usually greeted her with a hug or a friendly clap on the shoulder. 

“Saint…” Shiner clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “You didn’t follow instructions.”

“Better to ask for forgiveness than permission,” suggested the blond called Saint. “I didn’t really think much of it, since he’s usually over here to begin with.” Saint pointed at Race, who looked equally as confused as Spot as to why he was there. Spot thought in spite of herself that Saint could be using him as a bargaining chip of sorts. 

Shiner returned to his throne. “Let’s talk.” 

The conversation went off almost without a hitch, the three leaders and their comrades debating the wheres and how-tos of creating a neutral zone. Everything was smooth until Shiner suggested banning the possession of papers by visiting newsies, to which Saint gestured to Race and responded, “Where would that leave him? We got kids what need to sell here. They got sellin’ spots already, they got regulars and they got friends. You just wanna ban them from sellin’ and make ‘em start over?”

It was then that Spot realized Race’s purpose in the debate — he was not a bargaining chip so much as a sympathy card that Saint played in order to persuade Shiner. Unfortunately for Saint, Shiner wasn’t having it. He stood from his throne and his face grew dark, a protective glint in his eyes that Spot had only seen when she or another young newsie had been threatened or hurt. Shiner stalked toward Saint with an intensity that rivaled a lion’s, but Saint knew better than to show weakness and back down. So Shiner got in his face and said in a whisper backed up with so much power it chilled Spot’s bones, “Your kids are your business. Keep ‘em off our territory unless they got permission.” 

The tension lessened as they drew their meeting to a close, having worked out a system to monitor visitors to the neutral zone. It was very similar to Spot’s recommendation, with more emphasis on arranging meetings than simply coming and going like Saint and Red had suggested. 

Shiner stood again and began shaking hands with the other leaders, indicating the end of the meeting, and Spot followed suit. She didn’t know what to do when she arrived at Race to shake his hand, but thought it best to simply shake his hand and avoid complicating the situation. As she did so, he clapped her on the shoulder with his free hand, and she mirrored him. Spot pointed her gaze as if to say, “We’ll talk later,” and hoped he got the message. Race returned to Manhattan with his brothers and the Queens boys also went their separate ways. 

As Baron and Melbourne returned to their stations, the remaining three headed toward the distribution wagon. 

“You did good, kid,” Shiner reassured Spot. “Learn anything?”

“Yeah.” Spot stuffed her hands in her pockets. “No compromising.”

Shiner laughed. “No compromising? That’s what you got from that?” He continued chuckling as he looked to Tiny, who hadn’t cracked a smile. “Of course it’s important to compromise, but you can’t compromise your values.”

“You gotta stay strong in your values,” Tiny added. “You can’t break the rules, especially if you’re the one setting ‘em.”

It was a not-so-subtle jab at Spot’s friendship with a newsie from across the river, but it was also a guideline that Spot would think about in times of crisis from then on. 

Compromise can be made on anything but your values. 

Even you don’t have permission to break your own rules. 

But even though Spot would return to these words of wisdom time and time again for guidance, she would eventually find herself disobeying both for the good of her borough and, less virtuously, for herself.


	8. The Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1894
> 
> TW: gender dysphoria (social and body), swearing, internalized transphobia

Spot and Race had been friends for almost two years before he convinced her to sell on the other side of the bridge, as he had moved into the newsboys’ lodging house in Manhattan a few weeks prior. 

The only things Spot really knew about Race’s home life boiled down to the fact that it was not good. He’d been made to sell papers when his mother became pregnant, but shortly after his sister was born both she and their mother had fallen ill and died. That was three months ago. Spot remembered Race coming to the lodge one morning not quite himself, and he’d broken down in tears halfway to the distribution wagon. 

It was different when Race’s father died two months later. Nobody in Brooklyn had seen Race for a week before Spot had taken it upon herself to make a trip to Manhattan, and Shiner had insisted on joining her. They found him at the Manhattan lodging house, afraid to venture further than Newsie Square for fear of being sent to an orphanage or, worse, the Refuge.

Shiner had worked it out with Saint, the leader of the Manhattan newsies, that Spot could come into Manhattan on occasion to sell with Race until he was comfortable enough to return to Brooklyn.

So this morning, Shiner escorted Spot across the bridge for her first day of work in Manhattan.

“How you holdin’ up?” he asked.

She merely shrugged in response. She was nervous, not because she was scared to be somewhere new, but because she didn’t know how well Race would hold up. But worst case scenario, she reasoned, they could outrun any cop that may be looking for Race. They could even sell near the lodge as to make escape easier.

Shiner still wanted an answer, though, and nudged her shoulder to regain her attention.

“I’m fine,” she said with a sigh. “Just thinkin’ about Racetrack.”

He nodded. “I’m sure the two of you’ll be fine. Saint said he’d have some boys keepin’ an eye on you these first few days.”

A skinny blond boy with a ruddy complexion met them at the end of the bridge. He introduced himself as Otto and shook their hands, claiming Saint had sent him to walk their guest the rest of the way. At that, Shiner tipped his cap and waved goodbye to Spot, who followed as Otto led the way to the lodge.

After a minute of walking in silence, Otto spoke up. “So, you the crown prince of Brooklyn, huh?”

Spot didn’t respond, but kept staring straight ahead. She couldn’t tell if he was poking fun at her or just making conversation, and in any case she didn’t really know how to respond.

Otto continued, “Hey, if Saint trusts you enough to let you cross boundary lines, that’s good enough for me. I guess bein’ Shiner’s pet’s got its perks.”

“I ain’t nobody’s pet,” she snapped back.

“Ah! He speaks!” Otto derided with a chuckle. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Don’t get all offended.” His accent, Spot noted, grew thicker, a Scottish drawl she often heard from Shiner when he got worked up. “I just meant that you gotta mean a lot to Racetrack for Saint and Shiner to work together on somethin’.”

She stayed silent. Otto was going to think what he pleased, and if her reputation as Brooklyn’s third-in-command preceded her, there was nothing she was going to do to dull any infamy she had garnered. She shifted her posture, holding her shoulders back in a sort of attempt to live up to her percieved status as “crown prince of Brooklyn.”

A crowd of newsies was already gathering outside the lodge when they arrived, and Spot felt like she was on display as she approached. Eyes everywhere were on the unfamiliar face in Manhattan territory. Spot steeled her stare, willing her aura to convey a cold “don’t fuck with me” vibe. The first person to meet her eyes almost immediately looked away, so she supposed her attempts were fruitful. 

She scanned the crowd looking for Race, but instead found Saint waiting for her in the doorway. He nodded at her and clapped Otto on the shoulder, gesturing for Spot to follow him up the stairs.

Spot had only been in the Manhattan lodging house once before, but this time she made note of all that she saw. The ground floor was mainly stores, a staircase between shopfronts leading to the lodge itself. The next floor was a dining hall, not unlike the basement of the Brooklyn lodge. 

Climbing to the third floor, they passed a large, mostly-empty room where a middle-aged man sat at a desk, presumably to check the newsies in and out as they came through. He couldn’t do much, however, as boys were bounding up and down the stairs faster than the poor man could count.

At the end of the hall, Spot noticed, was what looked like a communal bath hall, and Spot stopped to stare. The Brooklyn lodge had bathtubs and washrooms, of course, but there were only five tubs in the house and they were usually taken by older newsies who muscled their way to claim their place first. By the time Spot had waited her turn, the hot water would already be gone. 

She felt a tap on her shoulder, pulling her from her thoughts. She and Saint continued up the stairs.

The fourth floor housed the dormitories, one large hall of bunk beds like a barrack and a few smaller rooms off the main hallway. Saint stepped into the bunks, and Spot followed him through the rows of beds where newsies stared at them as they prepared for the selling day.

Race was sitting on the top bunk of a bed about halfway down the row, pulling on his boots. He lit up when he saw Spot, grabbing his hat as he jumped down.

“I’ll let you alone, Racer,” Saint called, already heading back toward the stairs. “Look for Otto or Ten-Pin if you get into trouble, yeah?”

“You got it,” Race affirmed.

He pulled on his cap and came toward Spot, a look on his face that could be mistaken for fear. Spot couldn’t even register what he was doing before he suddenly engulfed her in a hug, tighter than he’d ever hugged her before. It only lasted a moment, just long enough for Spot to barely reciprocate before Race backed off, shaking his head at himself as though remembering Spot’s dislike of physical contact. 

Spot set a reassuring hand on his shoulder in response, then cocked her head to the side. She wanted to ensure that he was okay but also avoid calling a lot of attention to them for fear of embarrassing Race. He seemed to get the idea, as he mirrored her, clapping her on the shoulder and starting toward the stairs.

But they didn’t get far before someone called out from behind them, “Racetrack!”

A slightly older boy was sat upon the bunk next to Race’s, a lopsided smirk on his face. “Forget somethin’?” 

The boy didn’t wait for a response and hopped down from his bunk, pulling a canvas bag from the post of Race’s bed. He tossed it down the aisle, and Race caught it one-handed. 

“Thanks. I woulda got all the way to the square before I realized.” Race chuckled, then gestured toward Spot. “Jack, this is Spot. Spot, that's Jack.”

Spot nodded in his direction and offered her hand, taking a few steps forward. Jack did the same, shaking her hand with a good amount of self-assured force. He had to be a few years older, as he was a good bit taller than Race and Spot and his almost nasal voice slightly cracked when he introduced himself. “Jack Kelly. Nice to meet ya.”

“You, too. Spot Conlon.”

Jack put his hands in his pockets and smiled a crooked smirk. “I’ve heard your name before. But I gotta say, I had no idea you was a dame.” 

Spot blanched at the comment. “I… didn’t know it was that obvious. I mean,” she gestured behind her, “even Otto thought I was a fella on the way over here.”

“Hey, it ain’t nothin’ to me,” Jack countered. “It’s just… uh…” Spot could have sworn she saw him glance down her body before meeting her eyes again. This guy was off to a great start. “Nevermind. Forget I said anything.”

“No.” Spot wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily. She didn’t like when people made assumptions about her. Even when they were right. She wanted him to say something, to dare him to make a comment about her body. “What is it? Come on, out with it.”

“Nah, like I said, it ain’t nothin’. I just meant that…” He floundered for a moment as he gestured vaguely at her. “That… that you just look like a girl wearin’ boys’ clothes?” 

He seemed to hope this got him out of the woods, but somehow the comment got under Spot’s skin more than anything else Jack had said. Her hands balled into fists as she looked down at herself. Suspenders hung on either side of hand-me-down knickerbockers she’d gotten from Shiner, a dark gray undershirt with the sleeves cut off covering her torso.

Spot would be lying if she said she hadn’t noticed her growth spurt that had started earlier in the year or other bodily changes that Piker had said just came with growing up, but she’d never realized anything about her was distinctly feminine. So feminine, in fact, that Jack had her pinned as a girl within moments of meeting her. 

But actually looking at her own body, searching for these identifiers, she noticed things she supposed she’d seen but never pointed out. Particularly, she noticed how her thin body curved in a bit in a way that Race and Jack’s didn’t, how the fabric of the shirt stuck to her chest and called her out as female. She looked like a girl in boys’ clothes.

She felt exposed, as if someone had pulled back the curtain to reveal the secrets of a magic trick. Half of her wanted to fight back or punch Jack in the face, but the other half just wanted to disappear. This half seemed to be the stronger half, as Spot shrunk back and broke eye contact, defensively crossing her arms over her chest.

Before she knew it, Race had pushed past the both of them, making a beeline toward his bunk. He dug under the mattress, then emerged with a blue plaid overshirt that he offered to Spot. Tentatively she took it and slipped it on. It was too big in the shoulders and the sleeves were too long, but somehow just having another layer on made her feel better. It clashed with the red pattern of her hat, but she didn’t much care. Race’s kind gesture was enough to make her feel more confident, more secure. 

Jack seemed to realize he’d overstepped and shied back, following as Race led them down the stairs and into the courtyard. 

“Hey.” He nudged Spot’s arm as they walked toward the square. “I didn’t mean anythin’ by what I said.”

Spot didn’t respond, so Jack continued. “I didn’t realize it was a… a sore subject.”

“If you’re tryin’ to apologize, there ain’t nothin’ to apologize for.” She shrugged. “You called it like you seen it.”

Jack sighed, not wanting to dig himself further into a hole with his friend’s friend. “I just mean that… that there’s guys like you… well, not like you, I mean—”

“What the hell are you tryin’ to say, Kelly?”

“Nothin’, I just mean, like, guys in girl bodies—”

“You’ve known me for five minutes. What gives you the right to say—”

“I’m just tryin’—”

“No, Kelly,” Spot lowered her voice, as their dispute was growing in volume. “You don’t know me. You said it yourself. I’m just a girl that likes to dress like a boy. That’s it.”

A silence settled over them. It was Jack who spoke next. “All right. I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions. And I’m sorry for… saying what I said, I guess.”

Spot nodded, half-heartedly accepting his apology. 

She’d have to have a long talk with Pike and Shiner back at the lodge about the subject. Piker didn’t dress like Spot — she wore dresses and braided her hair when she sold papes — but perhaps she could offer some insight as a slightly older girl. And Shiner, of course, had Spot’s back on everything. Surely the three of them could work through it. 

The rest of the day went smoothly, Spot and Race having picked a selling spot a couple blocks from the lodge. Ten-Pin and Otto were surely stationed nearby, but they kept out of sight. 

Jack, however, seemed to be a wanderer, as he occasionally passed them throughout the day. He would stop and make conversation for a few moments, then continue on toward his next destination. These interactions seemed more and more like he was checking in on them, Spot noted, which she sort of resented. He couldn’t be much older than they were, and yet he deemed himself their protector. 

Or perhaps it was nothing of the sort and Spot was just overthinking it. Whatever the case, something about Jack just rubbed her the wrong way. 

They retired to the lodge after selling their last paper to a young couple on a stroll. It was early, so Race insisted on grabbing supper in the dining hall before he let Spot get back to Brooklyn. 

“You let me eat on your tab so often,” he reasoned to her, “I oughtta return the favor sometimes.”

So they shared a meal with some of Race’s Manhattan friends. Jack was there, of course, talking someone’s ear off about a subject Spot didn’t care enough to note. A dark-haired boy who called himself Skittery sat opposite Spot, and a younger boy named Boots Arbus sat next to her. 

“Boots?” she repeated when he introduced himself, afraid she hadn’t heard him right. 

“Yeah, Boots,” he confirmed.

“Why do they call you Boots?”

He shrugged. “One day I lost my boots somewheres in the lodge, spent the whole mornin’ lookin’ for ‘em. Ended up finding two boots, but they was both for the left and I couldn’t find the right foot for either of ‘em. Story spread ‘round and it just stuck, ya know?” 

Spot chuckled. “Nice to meet ya, Boots. I’m Spot. Conlon.” 

Boots cracked a smile. “Now you gonna tell me the story behind your name, Spot?”

Race was the only person who knew the real story behind her nickname, so she launched into her prepared spiel for Boots. “When I first started sellin’ I jumped around all over the place. Couldn’t settle on a spot. So the guys called me Spot ‘cause they never knew where my sellin’ spot was gonna be.”

Boots nodded and continued eating. It was the first time in a while, Spot thought, that she hadn’t introduced herself to someone for their initial response to be something akin to “I’ve heard of you.” It was a nice change of pace. 

“So Boots,” Spot started. “Help me out.”

He raised his eyebrows and waited for her to continue. “I’s only really here for Race. I don’t know nobody.” She scanned the table, which was full of unfamiliar faces. “Catch me up on everyone.”

“Oh!” He took one more quick bite then jumped right in. “Well, ya got Race. Been livin’ here a few weeks but sellin’ for longer. Then there’s Cowboy Kelly.”

Spot’s brow furrowed and she interrupted him. “Cowboy? Why Cowboy?”

“Everyone really calls him Jack but some of the guys call him Cowboy ‘cause he always says he’s gonna go out West. He’s been livin’ here a while. His folks…” He trailed off but Spot got the picture.

“And who’s Kelly talkin’ to down there?”

“That’s Pie Eater.”

The look on Spot’s face must have been less composed than she’d intended, as Boots snorted at her reaction. “You Manhattan guys’ve got the weirdest nicknames.”

“Oh do we, Spot?” He elbowed her, a playful smirk on his face. “He’s called Pie Eater ‘cause—”

“Lemme guess,” she interrupted. “He likes to eat pie?”

“Yeah, that one’s pretty straight.”

They chuckled and Boots gave a brief history of the other Manhattan boys, from the older ones like Saint to recruits younger than Spot. There didn’t seem to be as strict a hierarchy as there was in Brooklyn, but Manhattan definitely had a system of power that started at the top with Saint and the others that, like in Brooklyn, lived in rooms separate from the main barrack. 

She conversed with Boots and the other Manhattan boys for a while longer before she decided to call it a night and head back to Brooklyn. She said her goodbyes and Race walked her the short distance to the start of the bridge, beaming and raving about how nice it was to sell with her again. He waved her off as she forewent a carriage in favor of walking, the cool nighttime air and the relative quiet of the bridge a welcome change from the closeness and heat and energy of the Manhattan lodge. 

She had quite liked Manhattan, though she still favored her hometown of Brooklyn. She realized when she was almost home that she was still wearing Race’s shirt, but she resolved to give it back the next time she saw him.

Which, of course, reminded her of the uncomfortable conversation she’d had the displeasure of sharing with Jack. She tugged at her too-long shirtsleeves as she contemplated all they’d said. 

She’d started wearing boys’ clothes because it made life easier as a young newsie wanting to fit in. She’d exclusively worn trousers and suspenders since she was five years old and couldn’t remember much from before that. She couldn’t recall ever feeling uncomfortable in the dresses and skirts she used to wear.

Though that was a long time ago, and she’d never felt so uncomfortable as she had upon Jack’s appraisal of her. 

A girl wearing boys’ clothes. 

It was accurate, she supposed, but she didn’t like it. She’d never felt weird about people assuming she was a boy. It happened often. In fact, she kind of liked when people assumed she was a boy. But she’d never had to deal with people like Jack thinking she was a girl immediately upon meeting her. She didn’t know if she’d felt weird about it or if it had just surprised her. Either way, she felt weird about it now. 

She arrived at the lodge intending to talk to Shiner, but he was nowhere to be found. Instead she peeked her head into the room Pike shared with a couple other girls, where she found her friend sitting and reading. 

Spot stepped into the room, knocking lightly on the door to indicate her presence. Piker looked up and her eyes twinkled. “Hey, Spottie. How was Manhattan?”

A smile crept across Spot’s face. Piker just had that effect sometimes. “Pretty good. Sold all my papes.” She sat next to Piker, her hands in her lap. 

“What’s goin’ on?”

Concern shone through Piker’s voice, and Spot sighed. “Can… Is there…” She stammered as she searched for the right way to ask. “Do you mind… Can I maybe try on a dress of yours?”

Pike’s eyebrows shot up, but she nodded anyway. “Sure. Let me see what might fit.” 

She stood up then kneeled at the side of the bed, reaching underneath to pull out a faded canvas trunk. She rifled through it, and Spot caught sight of grays and blues and ruffles and lace and all sorts of things she hadn’t worn in years. Pike picked out a couple of options — one green dress with a flat collar and buttons down the front and a brown one with small white flowers patterned across it. 

Spot weighed her options as Piker closed the door for privacy. She reminded herself to have an open mind, but that she didn’t ever have to wear a dress again if she hated it. She undressed as she contemplated, turning her back to Piker even though she knew she didn’t need to. She decided on the green one and slipped it on over her thin undershirt and drawers. It fit pretty nicely and she turned to Piker, who adjusted it slightly before stepping back. 

The sleeves weren’t puffy like some dresses Spot had seen girls wearing, and the waistline sat where she supposed it probably should. The fabric was comfortable, she had to give it that. And the dress itself was pretty. It was a little long in the sleeves and loose in the shoulders, which was to be expected since Piker was a bit older and taller. Spot looked down at herself but couldn’t really get a feel for the dress.

It was clear to Piker that she needed a better view, and so she grabbed her hand and bolted out the door before she could react. Piker led her up the stairs to the fourth floor, an attic that Spot thought was only used for storage. Sure enough, boxes and crates were scattered across the floor, as well as bits and pieces of broken furniture. 

Piker apparently knew where she was going, as she brought them straight to a corner where a large mirror sat against the wall. It was cracked down the middle, which Spot assumed was the reason for its banishment, but it looked like it could have once hung in the bath hall in the basement. Piker opened some nearby curtains to give a little more light, and Spot was able to finally see herself in full.

It was nothing special, she thought. There was nothing particularly good or bad about how she looked, nor about how she felt seeing herself in such out-of-character clothing. She turned to the side, then put her hands on her hips, then faced forward again, but she still felt… apathetic. It wouldn’t be her first choice of clothing, but certainly she would wear it if she had to. 

But there was one problem that nagged her as she looked at her reflection. Her short hair stuck out like a sore thumb, and the dress didn’t really go well with some of her more masculine qualities — her posture, her tough facial features, calloused hands that Piker somehow seemed to avoid even as a newsie. It was the opposite, Spot thought, of the problem she’d encountered earlier in the day. 

She looked like a boy wearing girls’ clothes. 

She scratched behind her ear and fiddled with the fabric of the dress, which she decided was neither comfortable nor particularly uncomfortable. She didn’t look quite right in girls’ dresses and she didn’t look quite right in boys’ shirts. So what was the point in fretting over it?

“Fuck it,” she mused aloud.

“What?” Piker asked through a light chuckle. 

“Fuck it!” Spot repeated without any more explanation.

She headed back downstairs, Piker at her heels, where she ran into Shiner making his nightly rounds. His expression, which started out as expectant, quickly grew surprised, confused, concerned, back to confused, then somehow went through all the stages of grief before he simply cocked his head. 

“Conlon? What… are you wearing?”

She just smiled at him as she headed back toward Piker’s room. She quickly changed out of the dress and left it on Pike’s bed while Piker did her best to explain the situation to Shiner. Spot soon emerged back into the hallway, the closest thing Shiner had ever seen to a shit-eating grin on her face. 

“Conlon, I send you to Manhattan for one day and you come back having lost your mind?”

Spot only shrugged. “Fuck it.”

Shiner blanched while Spot mosied down the hallway toward her room. She heard him demand, “Who taught her that?!” before she shut the door to get ready for bed. She didn’t think she’d be wearing a dress out in public any time soon, but her little experiment had served its purpose. She was confident that she could wear whatever the hell she wanted however the hell she wanted, and that she wouldn’t let anyone else’s opinions and judgements get in her way. Boy or girl or whoever she was, that was hers to decide and hers alone, and her honest thought on the matter was truly, “Fuck it.”


	9. The Lone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1894
> 
> TW: swearing, deadnaming, violence

Spot’s recklessness had been a point of contention with Shiner since the day he helped her find refuge at the lodging house. She had a tendency to be volatile, to react violently and without warning when pressured. This tendency had lessened as she matured and as she came into her position as Brooklyn’s third in command, but her volatility would still rear its ugly head at the worst of times.

Early in her career at _The World_ , she had garnered a reputation for getting into fights, particularly with older boys like Tomcat who thought she would be easy prey to pick on. Most kids in Brooklyn had learned to be afraid of Spot’s right hook, which she would throw around at even the slightest teasing. Shiner had to teach her to fight in other more sophisticated ways.

“Anyone can throw a punch,” he’d told her once. “You gotta have other weapons in your arsenal.”

Shiner himself was a master at the art of de-escalation, doing his best to eliminate fights before they reached the point of no return. This often came in the form of dodging punches and talking his opponents down. Stay on defense unless absolutely necessary.

Spot had gotten used to talking her way out of fights, only throwing a punch when absolutely necessary, though her definition of “absolutely necessary” proved different from Shiner’s. Where Shiner preferred to de-escalate situations, Spot excelled in intimidation. Her reputation preceded her, and all it took from Spot was silence and a threatening pose to shut down fights before they started. It was rare that someone would want to take her on given the stories that were told about her — someone had spread a rumor that she’d beat up some guys on the Ferris wheel at Coney Island. This story was entirely false, of course — it had only been one guy and it wasn’t on the Ferris wheel but on the carousel — but that didn’t stop people from believing it. Even though she was just a ten year old girl, Spot had an icy stare and an intensity that matched her reputation.

But being around Race somehow made her more reckless than she was without him.

Race was known to nick trinkets from shops or out of pockets. He always had a bruise or two from a fight he shouldn’t have provoked, and his weakness for causing chaos only got worse as he got older. Sometimes, it rubbed off on Spot.

Shiner had a higher tolerance for Race’s shenanigans than Tiny did. Race had never done anything to provoke Tiny specifically, but Tiny made it clear he didn’t like Race’s presence in Brooklyn. It was one of many things that Tiny and Shiner disagreed on, and it was certainly not the most pressing.

Spot had only heard whispers, but there was tension among the Brooklyn newsies. Many didn’t like how Shiner was running things, and while Spot disagreed with him at times, she thought he was doing the best he could. It was with things like diplomacy matters and boundary protection that many took issue. The recent neutral zoning along the East River had pissed off many constituents who thought Shiner’s policy would allow for Queens and Manhattan to encroach on Brooklyn territory. Some had suggested that Shiner step down, supporting Tiny’s ascent to power. It was only whispers, but the tension was evident.

This tension was on Spot’s mind as she crossed the bridge to Manhattan one spring morning to meet with Race. She was stopped short, however, when she spotted a group of distressed newsies standing outside the Manhattan lodge.

She said nothing as she approached, but Boots noticed her and jogged to meet her. “Spot!”

She shook his hand and clapped him on the shoulder. “Why so on edge today?”

“It’s Race and Kelly…”

At the mention of Race’s name, Spot’s eyes began scanning across the crowd. No sign of Race or Jack. “What about ‘em?”

“Got arrested!” Boots hissed as though trying to avoid being arrested himself.

Spot’s chest tightened. She had never known anyone to be arrested. “When?”

“Just now. Maybe ten minutes ago.”

Spot didn’t know what to do but not. She thanked Boots for the update, then turned on her heel and headed back to Brooklyn. Without Race, she supposed, there was nothing keeping her in Manhattan, especially not during a crisis. She returned to Brooklyn before Shiner had even bought his papers, and she found him with Tiny in line at the distribution wagon.

“Conlon, where’s the fire?” Shiner asked as she approached. She hadn’t been running, but her face must have given her away.

“What happens when a kid gets arrested?” Spot skipped right to the point. She had no desire to put up with anything but the information she wanted.

Shiner gawked at her, then sighed as he gathered his thoughts. “They’d prob’ly get taken to the Refuge. Why?” His brow furrowed. “Someone after you?”

“No,” she reassured him, “but I was just over in Manattan. Race got arrested.”

“Good riddance,” Tiny muttered only just loud enough to be heard.

Spot blanched, shocked that Tiny would voice his disdain that openly and tactlessly.

Shiner turned to him and murmured, “This is neither the time nor the place, Tiny.” There was a sense of restraint in Shiner's voice that said to Spot that he was far more upset with Tiny than he let on. Perhaps the whispers had some traction.

Tiny sighed. “Look, Conlon, the Refuge is a shitty place you don’t ever wanna go. Got at least two kids to a bed, barely any food, and a high chance you’ll get soaked at least twice. By the guards, not by other kids.”

“Tiny—” Shiner tried to cut in.

But Tiny continued. “Then once you get out — if you get out, that is — you won’t be able to sleep for months. Too many nightmares ‘bout fightin’ other kids for a scrap of food or the fear you’ll wake up to you or your friend gettin’ dragged outta bed in the middle of the night to get soaked for somethin’ you didn’t know you did.”

“Seriously, shut the fuck up.” Tiny was calling attention to their spat, and Shiner was trying his best to shut it down quickly.

“Hope your boyfriend’s got a thick skin, Conlon, ‘cause he’s gonna fuckin’ need it.”

“Etienne!” Tiny quieted at the use of what Spot assumed was his real name. Shiner was staring daggers at Tiny, the angriest Spot had ever seen him. “That’s enough.”

Tiny acquiesced, cutting in front of Shiner to buy his papers then fucking off without another word.

Tiny’s words stuck with Spot in the weeks following Race’s arrest. She hung on every word she heard about the Refuge, yearning to know some detail about her friend or any encouraging word that could counter the horrific image of the Refuge she had built up in her mind. But none came. Everything she heard about the Refuge only reinforced the nightmare her imagination had conjured.

About a month after Race’s arrest, Spot would find out for herself what the inside of the Refuge was like.

Looking back on it, Spot didn’t know if she’d gone recklessly looking for trouble the night she was arrested or if it had just been bad luck. She had taken to selling the evening paper around Prospect Park once she’d sold all her papers for the day, a few extra dimes to put toward her savings she supposed. It was lonely selling in the daytime, and it was lonely being at the lodge. She occupied her time the best that she could.

But tonight in particular, she had pushed her limits, venturing into her old stomping grounds as she looked for a selling spot. Perhaps she knew what she was doing, as she found a fight as she rounded one last corner.

“Dottie…” came a familiar voice from somewhere to her right.

She turned, now face to face with Tomcat and his gang. Her grip tightened around the stack of papers in her hand.

“What do you want?” Spot’s voice betrayed her feeling of dejection. She just wanted to sell her papers and leave, but Tomcat had other ideas.

“I don’t want anything you got to offer me, sweetheart,” he derided, but Spot didn’t let his comments get under her skin.

“Then can I go?”

Tomcat shook his head, then motioned for his gang to advance. Spot didn’t know what he was aiming for, or if he was just trying to scare her, but she wasn’t going to let any of them get their hands on her. She kicked the feet out from under the nearest goon, then twisted the arm of the next as she pushed him away. One was able to grab her free hand, but she elbowed him in the ribs with all her force. He stumbled backward but held on, throwing her off balance as she dropped her papers. She felt a hand grab her other wrist and turned to kick the hand’s owner in the crotch before yanking her arms from their grasp.

She tried to run, but Tomcat himself grabbed her by the collar and threw her to the ground. She landed with a sharp crack that she feared was the impact of her head against the pavement. Her eyes scrunched up in pain and she felt herself being lifted by the front of her shirt, then she found her face closer to Tomcat’s than she’d ever wanted. He sneered at her, his fist knotted in the fabric of her shirt. “You got somethin’ to say for yourself?”

Spot shook her head, fury boiling over in her heart, and she did something rash that sealed her fate. She spat in Tomcat’s face.

Suddenly she was on the ground again, her own hands gripping to Tomcat so he was also forced to fall. Another sharp pain rocked through her skull as a boot collided with the side of her head. She yelped and thrashed, doing her best to throw Tomcat far enough away that she could escape, but the older boy was too heavy for even her adrenaline-fueled muscles to handle.

Somehow she got her feet underneath him and shoved with all her might, but it was like trying to break down a steel door. He was barely moved, losing his grip on her but not going far. Spot barely had time to recognize she had a free hand before it was wracked with pain, and she cried out. One of Tomcat’s goons had stomped on her left wrist, surely shattering bone. She twisted toward the offender, using her only remaining method of attack and biting his leg. She heard a yell as he pulled back, kicking her again in the process.

She felt a pressure on her ankle and looked to see another goon pulling her leg, her bad leg, trying to keep her in the ring. She was only able to give a few kicks before she felt a higher pressure, Tomcat pinning her down by her thighs as he pulled himself up. She went to punch him with her good hand, but it was caught in midair by a goon that pulled it back down to earth, holding both of her hands against the ground.

Spot was suddenly vulnerable, almost completely defenseless against the pack of five boys that had her at their mercy. Tomcat adjusted his stance, basically sitting on her stomach with a knee on either side of her torso and goons restraining her so she couldn’t fight back.

It could have been worse, Spot would tell herself later. He could have done so much worse.

But in the moment she couldn’t think of many things worse than losing count of the number of times Tomcat’s fist connected with her jaw. The first few times she’d tried to dodge or bite him, but after one particularly painful hit she let herself go limp as he continued to beat her.

She felt herself virtually disconnect from her body, pain turning to numbness as he continued his assault and his friends took turns kicking her in the ribs.

It ended all of a sudden when a dim light shined above the boys’ heads and someone yelled “scramble,” prompting her assailants to disperse. Still not quite with it, Spot pulled herself to her feet, allowing herself to be guided by a stranger with a candle toward something that looked in the darkness to be a carriage. She made no arguments as she climbed in, only fully coming to once the carriage started moving. But it was then that she realized that it was less of a carriage and more of a paddy wagon, the door to her right barred like a prison gate.

Under any other circumstances, this realization would have spurred her to attempt an escape, but she was simply too weak and in pain and she knew she wouldn’t get far if she tried. She didn’t know how long they had been driving before they arrived, the cop cuffing her in the pitch black before he led her into the building. She winced as he led her by her left arm, the broken one, but knew it best not to fight back lest she want more bruises.

He uncuffed her when they reached what Spot could only assume was the barrack, shadows piled high of kids, all ages, as far as she could see. She heard the door slam and lock behind her, and she was now alone to fend for herself. She took her bag from her shoulder — by some miracle it had stayed on through the whole ordeal — and found an empty patch of the floor to settle down on. She fashioned a pillow out of her bag and cradled her bad arm to her chest.

Surely tomorrow would come and this would all be sorted out.

Surely Shiner would send someone to help her sneak out.

And surely the Refuge couldn’t be as bad as the others had made it seem.


	10. The Captive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1894
> 
> TW: violence, minor swearing

Spot hardly got a moment of sleep her first night in the Refuge. The stone floor was not only uncomfortably hard but it was also incredibly cold, the chill of the night wind freezing her from all angles. Not only that, but she was in a new place, a dangerous dog-eat-dog world known for its ability to chew kids up then spit them back out again, somehow worse than they entered.

Then, of course, there was her arm. And her jaw. And her sides. And every inch of skin that seemed to burn where those boys had grabbed her. She couldn’t keep her mind from wandering to the street corner and reliving the attack. She beat herself up as she played it back, chastising herself for not fighting harder or smarter or for not knocking Tomcat’s crooked teeth out of his head. Even as she recalled the memories, her imagination made it worse, supplying terrible things she should be grateful didn’t happen, atrocities she was fortunate not to have suffered. 

Spot had never been so injured in her life, nor would she ever again. She was convinced of that fact. Anyone who would want to do her harm like this should be fearful, she thought.

Spot never realized until that night the pain that crying itself can cause. 

She was woken from a half-asleep state by a hand shaking her by the shoulder. The moment she was lucid, she leapt away, throwing her back against the wall and fully prepared to fight. But the person in front of her was familiar. Spot couldn’t put her finger on it until he spoke. 

“Conlon?” An almost nasally Manhattan accent coming from a dark-headed boy that knew her by name. 

“Kelly?” 

She knew Jack had been thrown in the Refuge around the same time as Race, but the thought hadn’t crossed her mind that either of them might still be there. 

“What the hell happened?” he asked as he leaned down to see her closer.

She pushed herself backward along the wall, pain shooting through her limbs with every move. She must have looked like a scared dog in a cage, because Jack stood and backed off. 

“Come on,” he goaded, “you can’t keep sleepin’ on the floor. You’ll freeze to death.”

He held out a hand to her, but she suddenly felt like she’d sooner throw up her nonexistent dinner than take it. 

Jack’s brow furrowed and he tried again. “Come on. Let’s go,” he insisted, but Spot still couldn’t bring herself to trust his outstretched hand.

He grew frustrated, glancing around for any sign of guards before raising his voice and leaning in again. “Conlon. Let’s go.” 

His forceful tone came off more as threatening, however, and Spot’s immediate instinct was to fight. She kicked him in the chest, immediately regretting the decision but not knowing how else to react. 

Jack stumbled back a few paces, losing his balance but catching himself before he could really fall. He glared at her, mouth agape like he was about to yell at her or abandon helping her at all, but there was something about her fearful reaction that put him off the idea. She needed help, or a friend, or even just a bed to sleep on, but his tactics just weren’t doing it.

He sighed, then retreated back where he’d come. Spot watched him as far as she could, but he quickly disappeared out of the dim light of the moon. She felt bad about how she’d reacted, but somehow it felt like she wasn’t in proper control of herself. He was right, she did need some kind of shelter from the harsh environment both outside and in the Refuge, but she’d run him off with her reckless explosivity. She’d scared off probably her one chance at an alliance.

Just as she thought that, a shadow approached from where Jack had disappeared, followed by a second shorter shadow that quickly overtook the first. Spot tensed up involuntarily as they approached. The shorter one reached the light first, illuminating the familiar face of an olive-skinned Italian boy around Spot’s age. 

Her eyes widened but she didn’t make any move toward Race as he kneeled by her feet. “Spot!”

He looked a little worse for wear since the last time Spot had seen him, his clothes filthy and his hair greasier than normal as though neither he nor his clothes had seen a wash in weeks. But she assumed she probably looked worse based on his intense scrutiny of her visible injuries. His gaze drifted from her face to her wrist to the bruises on her shins, something akin to heartbreak glistening in his eyes as he took in exactly how his friend had been hurt. “Spot, what happened?”

She took a deep breath and blew out a sigh. “Well, you know how they say ‘you shoulda seen the other guy?’”

Race nodded, brows knitting together in confusion.

She shrugged. “I’m the other guy.”

Race didn’t know how to react until Spot cracked a halfhearted smile. At least through whatever happened, he thought, she’d retained her sense of humor. He let out a relieved chuckle, that signature Race-like glint reappearing in his eye, Spot noticed, and gave her one last once-over.

“Can you move?”

Spot sighed and adjusted her position so she was sitting forward. “Yeah, I can move.”

“Do you want to come back with us?”

She looked at Race, then she looked at Jack, then back at Race. She knew she could trust Race, and if Race trusted Jack then she supposed she’d just have to put her faith in Race’s judgement.

God help her. 

She nodded and pushed herself to her feet, careful not to put pressure on her injured hand. Race grabbed her bag from the floor as he also stood, offering an arm for her to balance with. 

She took a few steps on her own, but the fight must have exacerbated her bad leg, and she stumbled. She grabbed Race’s shoulder for support, and he wrapped an arm around her back to steady her. They hobbled along, Jack bringing up the rear.

They reached a bunk just over halfway down the room and nearest the windows, and Jack pushed by them to climb to the top bunk. 

Spot didn’t like climbing ladders in general since her fall down the fire escape as a child, and even less so in her battered state. “I dunno if I can do that.” She nodded at the ladder then at her injured wrist. 

Race surveyed the situation, then decided, “We can handle it.” 

He took Spot’s good hand from his shoulder and placed it on the rungs of the ladder, urging her to begin climbing. She started the ascent, Race’s hand on her back in case she fell. Determined to make it, she pulled herself up one-handed bit by bit until she got to a point where she couldn’t proceed without help. Jack got the message and offered a hand, pulling her the rest of the way. 

Race followed moments after, the three of them sitting on the small and rickety bunk. It didn’t seem like their adventure had woken any of the other kids sleeping nearby, and luckily so. Spot’s reputation would proabably have been damaged if anyone else had seen the future King of Brooklyn weak and struggling to even walk. She swung her legs over the side of the bed as Jack reclined, trying to find some comfort in the most uncomfortable of places. 

“So, really, what happened?” Race asked, patting Spot’s knee. 

It was supposed to be a comforting gesture, but Spot jerked away in surprise. “Christ,” she muttered under her breath. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.” Concern began to creep back onto Race’s face, a look Spot didn’t like to see. She hated feeling like he pitied her. 

“I’m fine,” she lied.

Race rolled his eyes, and Jack actually laughed, a wry snicker that for some reason pissed Spot off. 

“You ain’t fine,” Race quipped. “You’s covered in bruises head to foot, you got a limp, I think you got blood in your hair…” He grabbed at a few strands that had escaped her cap that were, indeed, stuck together with what looked like blood. “And, I gotta be honest, your entire face looks like one giant black eye.”

“Yeah, it ain’t pretty,” Jack chimed in.

Spot turned toward him. “Aw, whattaya mean, Jackie-boy? Am I usually pretty?”

He snorted. “Yeah, a real prettyboy, Conlon.”

The three continued on, exchanging quips until each of them nodded off. 

The moments of rest didn’t last long, however, as Spot was rudely awakened by a gruff voice and violent shaking of the bunk. Nearby kids groaned as they turned over and tried to go back to sleep, but Spot was given no such luxury as a guard pulled her from the bed and onto the floor. 

She landed on her feet, a twinge of pain running up her calf as the guard led her by the arm. 

“Hey!” she heard Race call after them, still half asleep as he sat up and watched them go.

They crossed through the room and out into an office, a shoebox only big enough for a table and a chair on either side. A small window provided the only light, the sunlight of the very early morning only barely illuminating the room. It all felt very much like the scene in one of Piker’s dime novels where the Western sheriff would bring in a gunslinging suspect for questioning, although without the charm of fiction. The guard pushed her toward the table, where a middle-aged man was sitting expectantly. 

Spot didn’t have to look at him for very long to know he was slimy. His eyes were narrow and uncaring, his clothes evidence that he was higher on the social ladder than the common blue-collar worker. But not by much. His shoes, hardly visible under the table, were faded, like they hadn’t had a shine in some time. In front of him sat a small stack of papers. He waved off the guard, not breaking his hawklike stare. Spot heard the door shut behind her, but the guard remained inside the office. 

“Sit.”

She did not. Spot was never one to respect authority unless it was earned, and she especially did not appreciate this man’s intimidation tactics. She just stared right back at him. 

“Sit, little man, or I’ll make you.”

It hurt her jaw to do, but she steeled it anyway. 

The man sighed as he stood. He reached for her shoulder but she jerked away, which only served to piss him off. He grabbed the collar of her shirt and shoved her so she landed lopsided on the hard metal chair. She couldn’t even straighten up before the palm of a hand collided with her face. Her already bruised jaw stung like hell.

The man returned to his own seat and picked up a pencil. “Name?”

She remained silent, and he looked up at her. Her defiance was grating on his nerves, and it showed in his face. 

“Boy, you’ve been charged with vagrancy and sentenced to two months. If you don’t give me your name now, I’ve got plenty of time to get it from you.” 

“Kiss my ass.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said that you can kiss my ass.”

The man sitting in front of her glared into her face with indignant shock. “I am the warden of this institution and you will treat me with respect. You’ll call me Mister.”

“Oh, well, pardon me, Mister Warden. Let me try again, Mister Warden. Kiss my ass, Mister Warden.” Spot knew she was being insolent, but she relished in it. “How was that, Mister Warden?”

Steam was basically pouring from the warden’s ears. “Boy, you’re so beat up already, are you sure you can take another few hits?”

“Sure. I doubt you can even make a dent in me, what with you bein’ so old and decrepit.”

Piker was right. It was fun to have a big vocabulary. 

The warden stood, ready to tear her a new one, but the guard spoke up. “Sir, there was some kids out in the bunks seemed like his friends.”

That sentence stopped Spot in her tracks. Was he threatening Race and Jack if she didn’t cooperate?

The warden looked between Spot and the guard. “Perfect. Bring them in, too.”

Spot’s heart jumped into her throat. “I don’t know those guys. They don’t know nothin’ about me.”

Based on the warden’s face, she wasn’t convincing. “Then it wouldn’t hurt to make sure.”

He nodded to the guard, and the door creaked open. 

“Spot.” 

The guard stopped. Spot didn’t want to risk calling the warden’s bluff if he was going to hold up. She couldn’t have it on her conscience if she were the reason for Race or Jack getting soaked. 

“My name’s Spot.”

The warden sat, and the guard retreated back into the room. 

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” He wrote down the name. “Surname.”

It would get her nowhere to fight back at this point. “Conlon.”

“And what’s your real first name, Conlon?”

She stammered. There was no way she could tell him her real name. Being a girl was dangerous enough in the outside world. She was sure that being a girl in the Refuge would be worse than the horror stories she’d heard from boys who’d done time. 

“Sean.” Pa’s name. “Sean Conlon.”

As he finished writing her new name on a form, the warden spieled, “Sean Conlon, you’ve been sentenced to two months in the New York House of Refuge for Boys. You will serve your sentence in full and, barring any misbehavior, be released at the end of your rehabilitation.”

“Yes sir, Mister Warden,” Spot hissed, drawing out every syllable. 

The warden rattled off some other details about her sentence and about the daily goings-on of the ironically-named Refuge, then dismissed her. She left the office without another word. 

The walk back to the bunk was not long, but it seemed to Spot far longer than it had been before. She limped her way through the barrack, using the wall or the bars of nearby bunks to balance when she felt herself teetering. She easily found her bunk as she got further into the room, since Race and Jack were the only ones even awake so early in the morning. Their whispers echoed lightly in the large hall, adding to the eerie white noise of pipes running and the occasional sniffle from the other bunks. The ambient sounds of the Refuge were haunting.

“…don’t know that.”

“She ain’t supposed to be here, Jack. She’s important.”

“I don’t care how important she is. Ain’t no way she’s gettin’ out.”

“You don’t know the Brooklyn boys like me. I wouldn’t put it past ‘em to bust her out today.”

The boys were discussing, Spot assumed, whether or not Shiner would pull some strings to make it right. Spot had neither an answer nor the desire to listen to their conversation, and so she interrupted.

“Hey,” she whispered as she tapped on Race’s leg, which hung over the side of the bunk. 

Race jumped a bit — “Shit, Spot, you scared me.” — then climbed to the ground to help her up the ladder. With some teamwork, they made it.

Spot explained what had happened, reassuring them both that she was fine. She absently took stock of her injuries as she spoke. Her only broken bones seemed to be in her wrist, which she fumbled to set properly, but everything else seemed to be only bruised. Her nose wasn’t broken, as Spot had initially feared it was, though the muscles in her her bad leg were aggravated. She would probably be limping for a while.

She began to regain some morale, confident that she would heal up fine, though in the meantime, she would have to get used to the Refuge. It was a daunting task, she thought, but at least she would not be alone in it.


End file.
